Stars Tumbling From a Burning Sky
by Shakespira
Summary: Hawke doesn't believe in destiny and refuses to believe in love. Ser Bryant believes in both. But, sometimes, love and destiny walk separate paths. Hawke's story, slightly AU, from Lothering to Kirkwall. Rated M
1. Prologue

**A/N: **_Thank you, lisakodysam, for beta reading another story. You are extraordinarily patient, and I appreciate your help and friendship more than I can express.  
>David Gaider has stated: Templars are discouraged from marrying or raising children since it is impractical to live apart from ones' dependents. However, such unions are occasionally permitted, provided that the templar's spouse has his or her own means of support, for example, owning land or a title. <em>

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><p><em><strong>Prologue<strong>_

_Father Sky and Mother Earth warred against the Great Serpent for many centuries, and, when all seemed lost, they placed their hopes and dreams in the stars. Each night, the stars shone down upon their children, and the children believed. _

_But, as time passed, the children of Father Sky and Mother Earth forgot the Great Serpent and the war that was fought on their behalf. They no longer saw hopes or dreams in the stars; they saw only points of light that illuminated the darkness._

_It is said that, in the time of the next great upheaval, the stars will tumble from a burning sky and only those who truly believe will find their way again_. **From a book of** **Chasind Folktales*****

**Vimmark Mountains – Corypheus's Prison 9:06 DA**

"You'll have to submit to this if you want to survive, Malcolm," the Grey Warden commanded patiently, extending a goblet.

Malcolm stared at the cup being presented to him, the dark viscous liquid clinging to the bowl of the chalice. First the blood magic he'd had to resort to in order to create the seals and now a blood magic ritual? Maker, how had it come to that?

"I won't become what you are," he replied coldly. "You're nothing more than a kidnapper and murderer."

"I'm not asking you to become a Warden. If I had known you'd become tainted…" the Warden began and trailed off. "I do what must be done," he finished quietly, once again extending the goblet. "I don't expect you to understand, Malcolm."

"And if I refuse?" Malcolm asked grimly.

"Then you'll succumb to the taint within a matter of days, your wife will lose a husband and your child will be born without a father."

"You bastard," Malcolm snarled. "You kidnap my pregnant wife, force me to do your bidding and now you would have me become a Grey Warden?"

"No. I don't ask that of you. If you survive the Joining then I will ensure you are left alone, to live your life as you see fit. It is the least I can do."

What choice did he have? Malcolm Hawke rubbed his forehead. The taint form the darkspawn was burning in his blood; he could feel it poisoning him. For a moment, he considered rejecting it and letting the poison flowing hotly in his veins kill him. Leandra's reputation might be ruined but at least she would be taken care of. What could he give her, other than a life built on lies and subterfuge? A life constantly running from what he was?

He would make their life worth the sacrifices. Somehow.

"And if I take this? What happens?"

"It won't cure you, but it will slow the taint down, giving you twenty or thirty years more than you have right now."

Malcolm listened intently as Larius explained what his future held as the taint slowly killed him. It would have to be enough.

"If I ever see you near my family, I will kill you where you stand, Larius," Malcolm averred and then took the chalice, drinking deeply.

As it turned out, it gave him twenty-one years and he was grateful for each one of them.

**~~~oOo~~~**

_**East of Lothering – 9:20 DA**_

Malcolm glanced at Laria, who was striding beside their cart, her eyes scanning the surrounding countryside. Guilt and pride warred within him as he took in his daughter's serious expression. She would have been a shield-maiden in the King's Guard had their circumstances been different.

Tall for her age, and as slender and tensile as a willow branch, she had his dark brown hair and pale grey eyes. He teased her about her riotous curls, cut short so that she could wear a helmet when fighting. She teased him about the grey threading through his own dark curls. They were close, brought together by their determination to keep the family safe, and, when he felt guilt over her lost childhood, he had only to remember her name to be reminded that guilt would not protect his family when he was gone. Only strength and resolve would.

They found the old farmhouse, deserted and rundown, on the edge of town. "Come along, Laria, let's see how well you can barter," Malcolm said. "Carver, watch over Bethany and your mother."

Nearing the town, Laria placed her hand on the hilt of her shortsword. Malcolm reached out and covered her hand with his own, squeezing gently. "It's best if we try a slightly more diplomatic approach, Laria," he counseled, softening his words with a smile. "A soft voice of reason will always be preferable to a sharp blade."

They were able to purchase the small farmhouse and surrounding land with just enough left over for a bag of grain and a milk cow. It was a start. Another one. Maker, he hoped it would be the last one.

"Now, go and see if there are any jobs on the Chanter's Board, Laria."

**~~~oOo~~~**

_**East of Lothering – 9:27 DA**_

The spring morning wore a mantle of endless blue. Before him, gently rolling hills, proudly dressed in fresh green grass, bade him welcome. A mist, lacy white fingers caressing the silver strand of the nearby river, beckoned him. The air was crisp and sweetly clean.

Stretching, he found himself whistling as he stirred the ashes and added kindling to the banked fire. After four years serving in the Denerim chantry, he had forgotten how beautiful and refreshing a spring morning could be. He turned his face up to the sun, eyes closed, breathing deeply.

He continued to whistle as he left the camp, a kettle set upon a rock near the fire. His destination was the river for a quick wash before breakfast. He didn't want to present himself to the Revered Mother of Lothering with the grime of travel still on him. By his reckoning he was less than an hour from the town.

As he approached the river, his whistle faded and he cocked his head. Someone else was already using the river for a wash, by the sound of the splashing. Scanning the riverbank, his eyes landed on a pair of trousers and jerkin hanging on a low branch of a willow tree. A pair of worn leather boots, scuffed and well-loved, were all that stood sentinel. His eyes continued on to the river and he saw the back of a head, capped by dark hair, as it emerged from the mist-shrouded water like some Fade spirit rising from a dream.

"Ho there, young man, are you mortal or are you a remnant of my dreams?" he called out, thinking that company, after so many solitary days on the road, would be welcome.

His words were greeted with an indignant and quite colorful curse, delivered in a surprisingly feminine voice. The owner of the voice turned to face him, wearing a wary frown and the river. He saw only a vague outline, an impression of gentle curves, before the mist gathered around her like a pale gown.

"You trespass, ser. This is Hawke land."

"Truly? Is the sky not the domain of a hawk?" he asked, offering the mist-enshrouded creature a smile. He was still not convinced that she was mortal. The day was so perfect, the smells and sights almost holy in their beauty. "Come now," he added, waving a hand, "surely you are not content to simply order me away? Will you not fly for me, hawk?"

The woman ducked under the water to emerge further down river a moment later. "I don't know who you are, ser, but you'd best find your way off this land."

Reaching out, he snagged the trousers from their home and dangled them over the water.

"Shall I bring these to you?" he asked with a smile, ignoring her suggestion that he leave.

"No! I would prefer if you would just leave the way you came," she replied quickly and firmly.

"Yes, I imagine you would, but as you are in _my_ dream, I would prefer you come fetch them."

"I assure you, ser, that if you don't leave immediately, you'll discover this is not a dream but a nightmare."

He laughed and stepped back, carefully replacing the trousers on the branch. "I'll do as you wish, my lady, but such a chivalrous act should be rewarded. My camp is just over that small rise. I've tea and breakfast cooking. Join me."

"Certainly not."

"Have it your way," he replied with a shrug, once more snatching the trousers before striking out in the direction of his camp.

"Wait!" she cried on a note of panic.

"Oh? Has my lady changed her mind and decided to accept my invitation?"

"I'm not your lady! Drop those trousers!" she snapped indignantly.

Laughing, he turned and gave her a wink. "Which trousers?" he asked, his hand moving to the thick leather belt at his waist.

"You wouldn't dare!"

He smiled, removing his hand. "No, I would not," he confessed. "Now, I'll leave these here and trust in your sense of fairness," he added, placing the trousers on a nearby rock.

As he walked back to his camp, he heard the sound of splashing water and soft laughter. He dug into his kit and pulled out a spare mug and set about steeping tea. Hearing her approach, he stood to watch.

She was tall and slender with clear grey eyes. Her short hair curled around her face as it dried, tendrils of dark brown clinging to her cheeks. She smelled of spring, and, for the first time since he'd joined the order ten years earlier, he felt as if he had finally found what he'd been searching for.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Laria watched him climb the small embankment and couldn't help but laugh. He was outlandish and charming, as different from the men of Lothering as night was from day. He was foreign and exotic, as if he hailed from Rivain, and his dark hair was touched in places by lighter streaks of brown, just as his dark eyes were touched with deep golden flecks. Despite herself, she made her way to his camp, intrigued.

She should be outraged, or, at the very least, wary. He was no doubt a brigand or a vagabond who would as soon fleece her as befriend her, but she felt completely at ease with him . She was not accustomed to such behavior, in herself or in the men of Lothering. Several had tried to court her but she held herself aloof, knowing what her father expected of her.

At twenty-one, she was considered too old to marry by many. She was not deaf to the rumors about her, though she chose to ignore them. Many found her intimidating, especially those with whom she trained. While the prevailing attitudes towards women soldiers had softened in the years since the rebellion, men did not find the warrior arts particularly appealing in a wife. She had been content in that knowledge, but suddenly she wished she was not wearing her father's cast-offs, or that she had thought to bring her brush with her. Such thoughts made her angry with herself, as well as the man who sat across from her, his dark eyes amused.

"Might I know your name, my lady?" he asked, handing her a steaming cup of tea.

"Laria Hawke," she replied and watched as his eyes lit with laughter.

"So this is, in truth, a Hawke's land."

"Did you think I was lying?" she inquired with a deceptively sweet smile.

"No, I actually believed I was having a dream. I'm still not sure I'm awake."

"I am more than willing to kick you or slap you, in the interest of proving that you are, indeed, awake," she offered with a smirk.

He threw his head back with a shout of laughter that did odd things to her stomach. She was attracted to him in a way she had not been with the few other men she had kept company with. They had been merely a means to an end, a need to sate her curiosity. This man was different and some part of her cried out a warning, just as another part of her said it was too late.

"Now that I have satisfied your curiosity, will you tell me your name?"

He smiled at her, and there was an intimacy in his smile that made her feel young and giddy. It made her feel attractive. It was heady and appealing and she felt herself blushing; a rare event for her.

"My friends call me Aerin."

"And your enemies?" she asked, feeling an answering smile come unbidden to her lips.

"Nothing fit for a lady's ears," he replied smoothly.

"And you've no surname?" she pressed.

"As it happens, I do. If you are intent on knowing _all_ of me, Lady Laria, so be it. I am Bryant Aerin Sinclair."

Laria felt her stomach and heart plunge headlong to her boots. The new Knight-Captain of Lothering? Oh Maker, what a fool she was. No vagabond or brigand, but a mage-hunter. Disappointment and embarrassment flooded into the empty space left by her stomach's departure. She jerked to her feet on legs that felt shaky. The bright morning sun seemed to mock her as she bade him a hasty and clumsy farewell. Maker's breath, the first man she'd ever been truly attracted to was the one man she needed to avoid, lest he discover her father and sister were apostates.

She heard him call after her but she didn't hear his words, only the echo of her own disappointment.

For the next two weeks, whenever she and her father went to town, she ran into him. He seemed to be everywhere. Where the previous knight-captain, Ser Fallon, had been content to stay within the chantry's walls, _he_ was not. He walked among the villagers, stopping to chat with them. If she went to see Danal inside Dane's Refuge, he was there, talking to Barlin. If she and her father brought elf-root and bane's tongue to Elder Miriam, he was there, discussing a parishioner's health.

One morning, when she saw him walking in their direction, she stopped and told her father to continue without her because she was going to visit with her friend, Allison. She felt her father's eyes following her and, when she reached Allison's cottage, she looked back to see he and Ser Bryant deep in conversation.

That night, her father asked her to accompany him to the river. "The fish are getting lonely," he teased her, and so they walked down through the newly-planted field and sat on the river's edge.

"The new knight-captain seems an honorable man," her father began quietly as he baited his line. Laria felt as if he was also baiting her. She shot him a wary glance.

"I suppose. It's a shame he's a templar and not to be trusted," she finally said when she was sure her voice wouldn't betray her.

"Laria, not all templars are evil any more than all mages are well-intentioned. Surely I've taught you to look beyond a person's calling," he chided softly. "I've known a number of moral and honorable templars."

"Be that as it may, Father, you have also taught me that the safety of the family is of the utmost importance."

She heard her father sigh. "My dear, do you not think you could find a man who will accept your duty to your family?"

An echoing sigh escaped her as she cast her line into the river. "No. A man will only distract me from that duty," she replied firmly.

"Maker's mercy, Laria. I don't want you to forfeit everything for the sake of your family. I _never_ wanted that. And should you persist in doing so, you will come to resent them."

"Leave it, Father. Ser Bryant is a templar and I live with apostates."

"I'm afraid it's too late to leave it. Besides, not all templars take a vow of chastity. They are even permitted to marry."

"Oh Father, what have you done?" Laria asked, horrified, her fishing pole forgotten on the ground beside her.

"Helped fate along its course, I trust," he replied enigmatically and refused to speak further on the matter.

Moments later she realized why her father was trying to arrange her future. His illness was accelerating and it was time for him to hasten it, he told her. Suddenly, the matter of the knight-captain seemed completely unimportant.

**~~~oOo~~~**

His luck, and life, were running out. He felt it in the impatient heat in his blood, in the twisted nightmares that robbed the entire family of sleep some nights. There was so much he still wanted to do, but, as he looked at his family, gathered around the table eating breakfast, he felt the joy of a man who had lived a good life, surrounded by those he loved. He would not spend his remaining time questioning his choices or decisions or bemoaning his ill-luck.

Regret was just a whisper of sorrow in his thoughts as he turned to his eldest. She met his gaze as she met life, directly and without guile. She nodded imperceptibly before pushing away from the table and standing, tugging nervously at the buckles of her leather jerkin. It was the only outward sign that she understood his time was coming to an end.

He had meant to tell her the entire story, a story even Leandra hadn't heard, but, in the end, he told her only that he had a wasting illness and that, when he knew the end was near, he would take measures to end his life, rather than draw it out. She had been eighteen when he told her and she had taken it with a preternatural calm. He shouldn't have been surprised. He had raised her to become the head of the family almost from the time she could walk.

Now, at the age of twenty-one, she was about to do that very thing. She should have a family of her own by now, but she had carefully rejected a number of young men who had braved her fearsome demeanor. Malcolm had been sure Quince Barlin would be the one to make it through her defenses, but she hadn't even blinked when she told him she wasn't interested.

Was he selfish to have raised his daughter to take his place as protector and provider? Many would say he was, and there had been a number of times he had questioned himself. Yet, she seemed content to follow the path fate had placed her on. Or was that something he needed to believe to assuage his guilt? Perhaps, he allowed himself to hope, she and Ser Bryant might find their future was together, rather than apart.

He sat on the bank of the river, Laria beside him. "I ask only two things of you, Laria. Watch after your mother and the twins. This life has been difficult for your mother, but she hasn't once complained. She'll need your strength when I'm gone."

"Of course, Father," his daughter replied, her voice steady and reassuring.

"The other is to open your heart to the possibilities of love, Daughter. The Maker has given the heart such capacity to love, and I won't have you deny yourself that joy out of fear or a sense of duty," he continued quietly. "If a noble woman and an apostate can find happiness, surely a templar and an apostate's daughter can, as well."

She slipped her hand into his and nodded once. "I will…try, Papa," she whispered reluctantly.

It had been years since he'd heard her call him that. He squeezed her hand and said, "That is all I have ever asked of you."

They sat in silence for several moments and then he spoke again. "I need you to visit Elder Miriam. She will be expecting you and has a potion for me. I need to speak to your mother and the twins while you're gone."

He watched her until she was a small dark spot on the horizon, thanking the Maker for her courage and strength…she would need both in the coming weeks.

Foolishly, he hoped she would allow her heart to find its destiny.

**~~~oOo~~~**

**A/N**: _Laria is of Greek origin and means: the stars are mine._

_***I actually made up this bit of Chasind Lore. I'm evil that way._


	2. River of Stars

**A/N: **_Thank you, Lisa, for the spot-on suggestions and the quick beta. You are amazing**.**_

**River of Stars**

_The great river of stars is the pathway that our souls take when we die, for it leads from Mother Earth to Father Sky, and is always there, imperishable and constant. We cannot know where it leads, but each bright star is a campfire blazing in the sky where the soul paused in its journey to look down upon us._ **Chasind Lore*****

Malcolm Hawke made his farewells and took to his bed two days after his conversation with Laria. He died with the same quiet dignity that he had lived his life. She was holding his hand when the light went out of his eyes and his hand went limp in hers. Mirroring his dignity, as a way of honoring her promise, she closed his eyes and rested the back of her hand against his skin, still strangely warm. She pushed away the small bubble of grief that formed in her throat and stood.

She didn't cry when she told her waiting family that he had passed away, watching calmly as Bethany and Mother held on to each other and sobbed in noisy abandon while Carver raged against the helplessness he felt. She offered soothing words and comforting touches, but held her own sorrow tightly to her.

"Carver, I want you to watch over Mother and Bethany while I go into town and make the arrangements. They need your strength, not your anger. Can you do that?" she asked softly. Not that either of the two sobbing women could hear anything but their own grief at that moment, but Laria was unwilling to raise her voice and disturb their need to express that grief.

Carver, blue eyes dulled by shock, nodded once. "Just hurry, Sister. That's all I ask," he whispered sharply.

She went out and hitched their broken-down ox to the cart, hands working by habit as her mind sifted through all the tasks before her. She was still wearing the clothes she'd worn the day before, the rumpled shirt hidden underneath the dark brown leather jerkin.

Climbing up to sit on the wooden bench, she picked up the reins and snapped them briskly. Mett twitched and started off with a jerk.

She blinked against the bright sun, angry that it would shine on a day that held such anguish. Yet, deep inside her, she knew Father would appreciate the sweet scent of spring in the air, and how deep the blue of the sky was. He had loved such days, working hard in the fields or taking his fishing pole and one of his children down to the river in the hope of catching their supper.

As she entered Lothering, she stopped first at Elder Miriam's small cottage and rapped lightly on the door. The old woman, her face seamed and creased with age, took the news without surprise.

"Go and speak with Mother Glynis, and stop by on your way back to the farm, child. I will be ready, then. Now, don't bother with the muslin, I've plenty," the town's elder instructed and Laria was grateful for the direction. Her mind was flooded with memories and images and she was having trouble focusing.

Chanter Devons bowed to her as she walked past the Chanter's Board.

"Well met, Chanter Devons," she greeted, surprised by how steady her voice was.

"A learned child is a blessing upon his parents and unto the Maker."

"Speak only the Word, Sing only the Chant," she replied with a ghost of a smile.

"Let all repeat the Chant."

After seven years she had given up hope of ever hearing anything from the brother's mouth other than the Chant of Light, though it rarely stopped her from attempting to trick him. She had tried every ruse she could think of, including pretending to swoon at his feet. He had merely recited a verse of Trials at her as he helped her to her feet. It was now a ritual that they both observed at each meeting and she would have been disappointed, somehow, had she broken through his resolve. But, on this day, her heart wasn't in it, and, as if aware of the reason, he spoke softly.

"_I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Fade; for there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker's Light, and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost_."**

He knew, then. Did the whole town? Had Father spent his last days setting up the support the family would need? She felt the heat of tears burning her throat but she blinked them back. "Only the Word dispels the darkness," she replied, her voice low and thick with unshed tears.

Ser Maron, her sparring partner one day a week, stepped forward and pulled the door of the chantry open. "Maker's blessings, Laria," he said kindly.

It was kindness that would undo her if she allowed it to penetrate her walls. She nodded briefly, refusing to speak again until she had to, the hard knot of her tears scalding as they pushed closer to the surface.

The air was thick with the smell of incense, and filled with the soft murmuring of the chanters at the Holy Brazier. While she was not entirely sure she believed in the Maker or the chant, she appreciated the pageantry of it all, the mysticism behind it. She stood at the back of the chantry and watched as Brother Elbert carefully lit candles.

A moment of panic assailed her and, for a brief flash, she couldn't remember why she was in the chantry. Her eyes scanned the faces of the templars and brothers and sisters. Why was she there? What had brought her to the chantry? A low sound of pain brought her memory flooding into her and she sagged against the back wall, fighting her anger and grief.

"Laria, child, come into my office." Revered Mother Glynis's voice, sounding far away and as soft as satin, brushed against her thoughts.

She nodded, willing her feet to move. She let the older woman's words wash over her and around her but refused to let them in because to do so would bring on tears and she would not allow herself to cry in front of people. It wasn't until the woman stood and handed Laria a sealed letter that she realized she had missed the entire conversation.

She glanced down at the letter, recognizing the script. Her hands began to shake. She shoved the letter into the pocket of her well-worn woolen trousers and pushed herself to her feet.

"We will be there at sundown."

"Thank you, Your Reverence."

"Maker guide your path, child."

Striding from the revered mother's office, she looked neither right, nor left, afraid that one more act of kindness would send her tears cascading down her cheeks. She was nearly at the door when a deep, rich voice penetrated her fog.

"Lady Laria, Ser Maron and I will be out to build the pyre shortly. Is there anything else you require of the templars?"

She stopped mid-stride, but refused to turn around. His voice was not filled with the cloying sympathy that had marked the voices of others. Gratitude trickled through her grief and she found her voice was steady when she spoke. "Nothing, thank you, Ser Bryant."

Elder Miriam was, thankfully, quiet on the trip to the farm. Carver was waiting for them, and, without being reminded, he helped the woman down from the oxcart and led her into the house.

After she had brushed Mett, Laria climbed into the hayloft and reached into her pocket. Her hands began to tremble as she broke the seal and unfolded the vellum.

_My dear Laria,_

_Don't be afraid to cry. Don't be afraid to lean on others. There are those who will be there for you _if_ you will allow yourself to reach for them. Give Carver a firm hand and remind Bethany that she has a Maker-given talent, not a curse. Your mother will need your counsel but she loves you, Laria, even if she finds it difficult to say._

_You have always been so serious and so strong, Daughter. Don't forget to laugh, don't forget to play, and, most importantly, don't discount love. Without your mother's love, I would never have had the courage to find my freedom. Measure a man by his acts, not his profession. _

_I love you, Daughter. I trust you. _

_Papa Bear_

She slowly folded the letter and slipped it back in her pocket. Papa Bear. She sniffed noisily and dabbed at her eyes, surprised to find them dry. She had nearly forgotten her nickname for him. He had grown his beard out, as well as his hair, and she had told him he looked like a bear. She'd been five then, waiting for the twins to be born, and he had laughed and insisted he _was_ a bear, growling ferociously. She had squealed and run to hide and they had spent the afternoon not at their chores, but playing.

Tears pooled, sliding silently down her cheeks to drip relentlessly from her chin. She let them fall, swinging her legs over the edge of the loft, allowing her memories to drift in and out of her thoughts.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Shades of violet and plum stretched in gold-edged arcs across the sky as the sun dipped effortlessly behind the horizon. Groups of townspeople, arriving in twos and threes, gathered in the high pasture, where the templars had built a wooden pyre and the soft murmur of their voices floated on the wings of a respectful wind.

Carver and Laria solemnly carried the litter to the pyre and the templars stepped forward to assist as they placed it on the small platform atop the pyre. Behind her, she could hear her mother's quiet crying and Bethany's gentle words of comfort. Laria bent to pull the threaded needle through the death shroud and, when she was satisfied, she nodded to the revered mother, who handed her a phial of oil.

As she anointed her father, she heard Chanter Devons, his voice rising above the other sounds, as he began to chant the Canticles of Trials. She and Carver stepped back and were joined by Bethany and Leandra. Laria placed a firm hand under her mother's elbow and stood silently, listening to Chanter Devons and the wind form a perfect duet.

When it came time to light the pyre, the four Hawkes stepped forward, as one, and held the torch to the dry kindling. Tremors shook her mother's hand and seemed to travel up her arm to shudder through her body. Bethany's face, as pale as a drift of snow, shimmered and wavered as the pyre blazed. But they got through it, somehow, and the Feast of Sorrows afterwards.

Finally, the last of the mourners dwindled into only a trio of them. The Revered Mother gave her benediction and then kissed Leandra Hawke on her cheek. "We are here if you need us, Leandra. Do not let pride stay your tongue should you require our help," she instructed firmly.

"Thank you, Your Reverence."

Ser Maron stepped forward and bowed, arms crossed in Andraste's blessing. "I expect you and Carver to resume your training soon," he told Laria.

"I think it will be a few weeks, Ser Maron, but thank you," Laria responded firmly, giving Carver a measured stare. Carver rolled his eyes, but didn't argue, which spoke to the depth of his grief because he hated training with templars and was generally outspoken on the subject.

She was about to turn away when Ser Bryant spoke, his voice no more than a silken whisper. "I promised your father I would see to your training."

Laria frowned. "He failed to mention that to me." Her voice was as cool as a winter's morning and she felt no need to add warmth to it.

"I've still got the letter, if you'd like to read it," the templar returned, his voice remaining deep and calm.

Arrogant arse, she thought crossly, searching for some words that would defuse, rather than inflame, the situation. She shifted slightly, turning to face him squarely, and her eyes locked with his. "If you say my father extracted a promise from you, I believe you. Unless there is a reason I shouldn't?" she added seriously.

Unblinking, he shook his head. "No reason at all, my lady."

"Then I suggest you discuss the new arrangements with Ser Maron. Good night, Ser Bryant," she added, allowing herself the merest hint of a curtsy before leading her mother into the house, where Elder Miriam stood ready with a sleeping draught for both Leandra and Bethany.

When the Elder of Lothering offered the same concoction to Laria, she shook her head. "I need to see to the livestock," she explained, slipping into her room to change.

Once the livestock were seen to, Laria wrapped her cloak against the chill night air and made her way to the river. Settling on a bank, she leaned back and watched the stars come out to wander in the night sky. Soon, the night wore a mantle of glittering jewels, a river of stars that seemed to mimic the flow of the Drakon River.

She had felt so disconnected from the events, from herself, as if she was a stranger borrowing another place and time. But now, with the humming of wind through the reeds, and the rustle of night animals, she came back to herself with a sharp snap and her eyes filled with tears again.

Sobs shook her shoulders and twisted in her chest, painfully robbing her of breath. She cried for what seemed hours, alone on the bank of the river, trying to understand why a man as good as Malcolm had been taken away from the people who needed him. Finding no answers, her sobs gradually diminished to a series of gulps and hiccups.

"_All I have ever asked of you is that you try, Laria. The shame isn't in failure, but in not trying." _

How many times had he told her that? How many times had she tried to believe it was more important to try than to succeed? She took a deep, shuddering breath.

"I will try, Papa, but I can't promise more than that," she whispered hoarsely.

**~~~oOo~~~**

**One month later**

"I don't know why Father wanted us to train with the bloody templars. Have we ever met a templar who isn't a colossal prig?" Carver groused as they walked along the dusty road to Lothering.

"Maron is a good man, as is Cledwin. Measure a man by his deeds, not his calling," Laria snapped and then put a hand on his arm, which he promptly shrugged off.

"Maron is a good man? He's a prig. A supercilious, jumped-up, little prig."

"Give it a rest, Carver. We're all aware that you hate the world," Laria retorted, stopping in the middle of the road. "And your sniping does you no credit."

Carver tossed a glare her way before continuing on. Laria smiled; a small gesture that came and went in a blink. Maker knew what he'd do if he saw that she was amused by his childish behavior. She couldn't help but wonder if he was always going to resent her for having the temerity to be born first? It seemed likely.

By the time she caught up to him, they were on the outskirts of Lothering and she stopped to talk to Quince Barlin. Carver managed a grunt in greeting before striding off in the direction of the chantry.

"Greetings, Laria. You looked fashed. Things not going well?" Quince asked in his booming voice. He was tall and heavy-set, a younger version of his affable, if irascible, father.

"Everything is fine, Quince, thanks. And with you? How's your family?"

Pale blue eyes narrowed as he shook his head. "Da's got it in for the wolves again. He's put up a bounty for them."

Why his father needed to put a bounty up when his son was capable of killing the wolves was beyond her. But Quince was lazy and his skill with a sword was not legendary so much as notorious. How a strapping young man could manage to hit like a girl wielding a stick was a mystery for the ages, but he was a kind man underneath the gruff exterior, also much like his father.

"I'll take a look at it. Maker knows we could use some money right now."

"Are you coming or not?" Carver shouted, just before ducking into the chantry.

"Charming man, your brother."

"Hmmm, not a word usually associated with Carver," Laria said wryly. She bade her friend farewell and entered the chantry.

Ser Bryant was standing near the altar, talking with Sister Hortense. He looked up and a slow smile spread across his features, a brilliant flash of white against his darkly tanned skin. Her heart flipped, irritating her with its betrayal. He excused himself with a perfunctory bow and made his way down the aisle toward her.

"Well met, my lady. Are you finally here for your lesson?" he asked, his warm voice low and intimate. Again, her heart flipped and she ignored it.

"So it would appear," she replied. "Lest you are busy?"

"Not at all," he answered, his hand light under her elbow as he guided her through the chantry and out into the practice yard.

Carver was already sizing up the practice weapons while Maron watched. Of course, he would take the largest sword on the rack. Another smile flitted across her face. He was so determined to be the man of the family, to prove his worth to anyone who would witness it. Some day, she hoped, he would understand that he only had to prove it to himself.

"Here," Bryant said, handing her a heavy, quilted gambeson. "If you think I'll take it easy on you because you're a woman, you're wrong," he added at her raised eyebrow.

"I don't expect any such thing. Maron has always treated me as an equal, and I expect you to do the same," she protested, anger limning her words.

She slipped the gambeson on over her jerkin and reached down to pick up a wooden shield and a shortsword, its blade dulled. She tested its weight and then settled the shield on her left forearm, tightening the leather straps.

"And if you think I'll take it easy on you because you're a templar, you're mistaken," she added, stretching and bending in preparation of their bout.

He laughed, a deep rumble of noise that made her want to join in but she refused. Quickly unbuckling his heavy silverite breastplate, he hung it on a nearby armor stand and slipped into a similar gambeson. He too chose a shortsword and shield, though she had seen the greatsword he preferred.

Next, he handed her a thick leather helmet and she quickly tucked her curls into it before buckling the helm in place. Once she had finished, she drew on her own leather gloves and watched as he removed his gauntlets, likewise replacing them with leather gloves.

Lifting her sword, she bowed formally, indicating she was ready. He mirrored her salute and then began to circle her, shield raised and extended, sword held loosely. She lunged, her shield smacking into his as she extended her arm, testing his resolve. His shield pushed back and, had she not balanced properly, she would have been sent sprawling.

She brought her sword arm up and extended it again, tightening her grip as she parried his attack. She spun away from him and bent her knees, her feet planted firmly as he moved closer. She feinted and spun on her heel, bringing her shield up and past his defensive stance. It caught him on the shoulder, a miscalculation on her part as she'd been aiming for the side of his head. The miss staggered her slightly.

He was quick for such a tall and well-built man and he used the opening to his advantage, bringing his sword up and pressing it lightly against her throat. "Your point," she conceded, pushing the blade aside, before spinning away. He spun with her and brought his shield up, pushing against her own and she was forced to duck and move to the left to avoid his scoring another point.

The world fell away as she fought. She was completely unaware of Carver and Maron, or the cluster of people congregating to watch the match. She focused on her target, dipping and swaying, parrying and thrusting, lunging and feinting until she was out of breath. Sweat beaded on her forehead and began a descent down her cheeks, to drip in a steady stream. She was relieved to see he was also showing the tell-tale signs of fatigue and she took advantage of his momentary pause to drive her blade through his defenses, its dulled point resting against his chest, directly over his heart.

"Your point," he granted with a warm smile of approval.

She was determined not to be the one to call a halt, but her muscles were crying out in protest as she circled him once more. She stumbled, her legs shaking with exhaustion, and he raised his shield arm, bringing it down in a sweeping arc that caught her on the right shoulder, sending her lurching backwards. She was unable to recover before his sword-point found her throat again. The match was his, his score the required twenty-one.

The practice yard erupted in cheers. Laria glanced over her shoulder to see many of the brothers and sisters of the chantry and most of the templars grouped together watching her ignominious defeat. Carver and Maron were still fighting and she sank down onto the straw-covered ground to watch, ignoring her sparring partner in favor of catching her breath.

Fingers trembling with exhaustion, she fumbled with the buckle of her helmet and, frustrated by their clumsiness, yanked at the offending buckle, snapping it. She whipped the helmet off, embarrassed, and tossed it onto the ground beside her. She could feel the wayward curls clinging damply to her cheeks and forehead.

She wiped her face with her sleeve and watched as Bryant picked up a dipper and filled it from a nearby bucket, bringing it to her. She took it gratefully and drank deeply, the water cool and sweet against her tongue.

"Your father was right. Your shield work is weak. A few weeks of practicing should correct that, especially if you come in twice a week from now on."

Laria gave an inelegant snort. "My shield work is no weaker than your footwork. Your moves are quite predictable."

"Then we both need work, don't we?"

"I have better things to do with my time than come in twice a week to pander to your ego," she snapped, fairly throwing the empty dipper back at him.

He laughed. "You'll find, Lady Laria, that I have no more ego than any other man. I am, however, possessed of extraordinary patience."

Her stomach fluttered at his words but she was not a simpering young maiden. She was the head of the Hawke family, with the duties and responsibilities that position entailed, and she wasn't about to let the handsome man with the velvet voice distract her from those duties.

"Well, if my father found it necessary to explain my weaknesses, I trust he also warned you of my strengths, one of which is my extraordinary stubbornness."

A warm smile curved his lips. "He did, in fact, warn me of just that. He also warned me that you have a wicked tongue and a hot temper."

Her blush started somewhere low and swiftly made its way up her body to rest willfully in her cheeks. "So you'd be a fool to pursue me," she said quietly, but firmly. He was a very strange templar; confusing and confounding and she didn't like the way her body responded to his nearness.

"I've been called much worse."

Of that she had no doubt.

**~~~oOo~~~**

When the last chore was finished, Laria found herself once more at the river's edge. The sun had slunk off behind a wall of clouds and a brisk southerly wind ruffled her hair. Her shoulders and arms ached from her earlier sparring session and she lay back in the grass, watching the stars dancing in between the clouds. She focused on a particularly bright star low in the eastern sky.

"If you're listening Father, it won't work. You can't force me to fall in love with someone just because you deem it so. He's arrogant and high-handed. He's driven by his oversized ego and is not at all my type."

She waited, half expecting to hear her father's voice as he chided her, but all that she heard was her blood thrumming through her veins, her heart skipping in her chest.

Bryant Aerin Sinclair was not her type, damn the Maker's eyes. The wind laughed as it quickened, a musical sound of reeds bending to its whim.

He was _not_.

* * *

><p><strong>***<strong>_This is based on myths/folklore of Native American tribes, most commonly the Algonquin, who believe the souls of the dead travel the River of Stars (Milky Way) or River of Souls to their final resting place, and that each star represents a soul looking down on those it loved._

** _From the Canticle of Trials_


	3. Songs of a Distant Star

**A/N: **_My continued thanks to super-beta Lisa for her helpful suggestions and hard work!  
>Many thanks to all who have read, reviewed andor subscribed to the story of Laria and Ser Bryant!_

**Songs of a Distant Star**

_It is said that the first shaman of our tribe, Liulfr, was a wolf. He roamed the North Wood, seeking more of his kind, but found, instead, a woman of uncommon grace who gave thanks to Father Sky and Mother Earth each night by gifting them with song and dance. Her name was Namidron, and she was the daughter of a chieftain. _

_The wolf fell in love with her, but when he approached her, she fled, frightened by the fearsome beast. The wolf howled mournfully, and Father Sky, in his compassion, gave the wolf the gift of shape shifting. _

_That night, Liulfr came to Namidron in human form and professed his love for her. They joined and had many children. The years passed and their tribe grew as the Great Migration south began. Even with the sorrow of battles raging, Namidron took time each night to thank Father Sky and Mother Earth with her sweet voice. Liulfr joined her, returning to his wolf form to add his song to hers. _

_Enemies from a warring tribe came upon them one night and Namidron was killed, an arrow piercing her heart and stilling her song. Liulfr, enraged, killed the warriors but was mortally wounded. He crawled to Namidron's side and lay down beside her to guard her body. Their tribe found them the next morning and rejoiced that they had been together when death had claimed them._

_Father Sky placed their spirits into the night sky. He located Liulfr high in the empyrean, and that which we call the Wolf Star, the brightest star, guards the golden star, that which we call the Singing Star, who is Namidron. _

_It is whispered among our people that if you listen with your whole heart, you will hear the golden star singing to the brightest star. **Found in a book, entitled "Myths of the**_ _**Chasind People" *****_

_**~~~oOo~~~**_

"Sister, supper is ready," Bethany called softly.

Glancing over her shoulder, Laria watched as her younger sister picked her way down to the barn. _Poor Bethany. She has Mother's grace and delicacy. She should be dancing at balls, not making her way through muck_.

"I'll be right in, Bethy. I just need to put down fresh straw."

"Mother says you're to come along now, that the chores can wait long enough for you to eat. She's right. You look peaked."

Laria frowned. "Tell Mother that I'll be there when the chores are finished."

Her voice was far sharper than she'd intended, and she watched as Bethany's smile wavered and disappeared. "I'm sorry, Bethy. It's just that this can't wait. Mab still isn't comfortable and I want to make sure she has cl –" she broke off and then continued urgently, "Go in the house! Quickly! Tell Carver to listen for my signal. If he hears it, he is to drain your mana! Go!" Laria added sharply before she tossed the pitchfork down, running to the stone wall where she'd left her daggers and bow.

The sounds of a horse, ridden hard, pounded loudly on dusty earth in the gathering dark. The drills that her father had insisted upon gave her the composure to face whoever was racing up the road to the farm. Every member of the family had a specific task to perform, and Laria was confident in them.

Her sword and shield were in the house, where she'd put them after the day's practice with Ser Bryant. She swore softly. Her bow was old and her skill with it laughable, but she didn't think she had time to go after them. Hopefully, Carver was already at the door, waiting for her signal: one phrase to drain Bethany's mana, another to send her into the cellar until it was safe.

Once her preparations were completed, she stood waiting. Her heart shifted and began to beat nervously against her ribs. She licked dry lips, wiping her palms on the grimy trousers she wore. She was hungry and tired. Her nerves thrummed impatiently as rider and horse drew closer.

The sound of hooves striking dirt became louder, and her eyes strained against the darkness for a glimpse of who was riding so carelessly along the rutted path to their farm. She nocked an arrow and drew her bow up, watchful and waiting. She stood in a pool of light from a nearby torch, an easy target, but she was unwilling to hide.

"Thank the Maker! Elder Miriam sent me to fetch your sister," Ser Bryant called as he entered the yard. His horse reared, pawing at the air, a loud protest at the abrupt end of his gallop.

Laria's relief mixed with distrust. She lowered her bow. "What can Bethany possibly do that Elder Miriam can't?" she asked, unwilling to acknowledge Bethany's powers, even though it was apparent he already knew of them and had from his first meeting with her father. Still, she had presumed that very thing once and the price had been high for her mistake.

"There isn't time for this charade, Lady Laria. Her Eminence fell ill this afternoon and nothing Miriam has done has helped. We need your sister's healing ability. You have my word that she will be safe and her secret undisclosed." His voice was low and a note of concern underscored the urgency of his words. She had never seen him look so serious, and it was his seriousness that eased her suspicion.

"Saddle Mab while I fetch Bethany," she called over her shoulder as she ran for the door.

Bethany, standing behind her protective twin, peeked out and gave her a puzzled frown. "What is it, Laria?"

"Revered Mother Glynis is ill. Elder Miriam has requested your healing. Fetch your kit and staff; then meet me out front. Carver, stay and watch after Mother. Barlin says the wolves have been acting up again."

Carver frowned. "_I_ should take her into town."

"I don't have time to argue with you, Carver. Do as I ask, just this once, without questioning me."

Carver's face flushed, and he opened his mouth to speak but then abruptly nodded.

"Just…just keep her safe," he mumbled, handing Laria her sword and shield. She quickly strapped them into place as Bethany reappeared, carrying her staff, her kit resting on one slim hip.

Mab was saddled and pawing nervously at the ground. Patting the skittish mare, Laria mounted, surprised to find the stirrups needed no adjusting, and held a hand out to her sister, who looked terrified. "Just give me your hand, Bethy, and put your left foot on mine, give yourself a push up and –"

Before she could finish, Ser Bryant leaned down from his horse, swept Bethany up onto the saddle in front of him and kicked his horse's flanks in one fluid movement. She snapped her reins and followed him as he disappeared into the darkness. _Arrogant arse_, she thought in annoyance. But she had to admit he'd put an end to Bethany's hesitation, and, while she was irritated, she was also relieved.

The last thing the Hawke family needed was to lose the support of Revered Mother Glynis. Her father had worked tirelessly to assist the residents of Lothering in every way he could because he had learned that a grateful populace was far less likely to report an apostate.

It hadn't been until an epidemic ravaged the town that his true worth had been lauded by Revered Mother Glynis and his safety, and the safety of the family, secured. He'd ridden into Lothering, which had been quarantined by the revered mother, and began healing. Laria had accompanied him and she'd spent hours helping him make potions, going throughout the town to distribute them to those most in need. After nearly a week, the epidemic had been quelled, with the loss of only a handful of people.

After that, Revered Mother Glynis selected only those templars she knew personally, those she believed capable of an enlightened view regarding Malcolm and Bethany. Not that her father had rested after that. He'd built the cellar with a series of tunnels leading southeast that ended in a wild tangle of woods and slopes near the Southron Hills. He'd put enough provisions along the tunnels to last them for several days, and Laria entered the tunnels on a regular basis to ensure there'd been no cave-ins.

They entered Lothering at a gallop and pulled up sharply in front of the chantry. A young sister ushered them in with a grateful word of thanks and led them to the revered mother.

Laria felt her heart sink at the sight of the elderly woman. A bluish tinge clung to the woman's lips and her breathing rattled in her chest like a pair of bone dice in a wooden cup. Selfishly, she prayed for the woman's swift recovery, knowing that without the revered mother's support, her promise to her father would be impossible to fulfill.

Watching her sister's fingers glow with a pale gold light, she felt the familiar tug of envy at Bethany's abilities. The spell caressed the cleric, like mist caressing a river, and the revered mother's breathing eased slightly. A knot that had formed in Laria's stomach eased slightly as she watched her sister talking with Elder Miriam.

"It's pneumonia, but I think we've caught it in time. Ser Bryant, I need a large cauldron of water, please. I'll heat it here. Sister Sharia, please fetch a bed sheet. Laria, go to the herb garden and find four stalks of ram's horn clover and six verbascum leaves. And please, Laria, wash up before you return."

Shocked into action by the calm instructions given by her usually shy sister, Laria hurried out to the chantry's herb garden. She felt the heat of a blush creep into her cheeks as she finally caught a whiff of herself. She smelled of dung, dirt and sweat, and her clothes were filthy. "Don't be an arse, who cares what you look like," she scolded herself as she moved among the rows of herbs.

As she bent down with her boot knife to cut the stalks of clover, she paused, listening to the mournful howl of a wolf somewhere to the south. She felt another twinge of guilt-ridden relief that the wolf was not preying on Hawke land. Maker, she was turning into a self-centered hag. She sighed, wishing the weight of her family didn't rest so heavily on her shoulders.

Gathering the herbs, she quickly made her way into the vast kitchen, where a young brother was making tea. "Please take these to Bethany," she said, handing the herbs to the surprised brother. "And direct me to a wash room, if you would?"

The brother pointed to a room off the kitchen and she found a large sink, a pail of water and a bar of rose-scented soap. Looking around, she saw no towel, but decided that hardly mattered, considering how filthy she was. After she had washed herself as best she could, she started to wipe her face on her dirty sleeve, only to find a towel thrust into her hands by Ser Bryant.

"So it _is_ you. I'd begun to wonder who the stranger accompanying us was."

Laria, face buried in a soft towel, didn't answer in the hope that her silence was answer enough. Of course, it wasn't. She raised her head to meet a set of eyes that held laughter in their dark depths. Tossing the towel at him ungraciously, she moved away, finding herself once more in the kitchen. Her stomach rumbled its discontent. Loudly. She felt another blush seep into her cheeks.

"Your sister said you're to eat something while you wait. She said it will be several hours before Her Eminence is safely out of the woods."

Amusement rode his voice, making her feel awkward and uncouth somehow, which caused her anger to flare. "My sister worries far more than she should. I'm not the least bit hungry," she stated coolly.

"Truly? Then what I heard wasn't your stomach clamoring for food? Perhaps there's a bear in our midst."

She glared at the templar, who returned her look with an appraising stare. She felt herself step back. "You needn't look at me as if I'm a dainty young miss who will swoon if she misses a meal."

"You do look a bit pale, Lady Laria, if you will permit my observation."

"I do not permit any such thing, and do not call me Lady Laria! I am no lad…I am not…just stop," she ended, flustered as he moved closer. She instinctively took another step away from him, and then felt embarrassed as he reached behind her and moved the chair she had nearly fallen over. Her senses were assaulted by his nearness, and her breath seemed to catch in her throat, despite her admonishment to herself to breathe.

"Very well, Laria it is. I suppose you still haven't consented to calling me Aerin? No, I can see that. Hope springs eternal. Now, please sit down and try to relax. I could use something to eat as well. It's no more trouble to dish up two portions than it is one."

"You aren't a very pious templar," she blurted, sinking into the chair and trying to stifle a groan as her tired muscles protested their ill-treatment.

"Now what makes you say that? You've hardly allowed yourself a chance to become acquainted with my…piety… or anything else for that matter."

Giving herself a mental shake, she refused to be drawn in by his warm voice and easy familiarity. He was her sparring partner, nothing more, she reminded herself grimly.

"True enough. Perhaps I should have said that you don't _appear _to be a very pious templar."

He laughed softly as he moved around the kitchen gathering utensils and dishing up bowls of fragrant stew. She was always surprised by how gracefully a man of his height and build moved. She continued watching him as he sliced cheese and added fresh plums to a plate already laden with bread, jam and butter. And if her heart beat a bit too quickly, she was more than willing to ignore it.

"Piety comes in many forms, Lad – Laria. I assure you I can pass muster should the Grand Cleric demand a recitation of the canticles."

What was it about him that made her want to slap him and kiss him in the same breath? She bent her head, hiding the smile that plucked at her lips.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Aerin glanced over at Laria to find her staring down at her hands. He felt a rare swell of tenderness roll through him. She was such a proud, prickly creature, who wore a serious expression more often than not, rebuffed him at every turn and seldom acknowledged him at all if possible, yet he felt an attraction – an affection – for her that he hadn't felt for anyone in years.

The thought rose, unbidden but not unwelcome, that he hadn't felt any attraction to any woman since Gwyneth. Not in the ten years since her death. He didn't ask himself why Laria had touched him so easily; he believed the hand of fate had plucked him out of his comfortable life in Denerim and placed him in Lothering for a reason, and that reason was now eyeing the platter in his hands with avarice.

From the moment he had encountered her at the river, she had plagued his thoughts, and, on several occasions, entered his dreams. He wasn't sure why he was attracted to her, or if she would ever return his feelings, but he knew he was exactly where he needed to be. His talk with Malcolm had only confirmed that. The trick, as Malcolm had stated with a wry smile, was getting her to allow him inside the walls she had built around herself.

He set the platter of cheese and bread down on the wooden planks of the table and heard another low growl emanate from her stomach. He chuckled as she muttered something about it being a traitor.

"It seems our bear remains nearby."

A reluctant chuckle escaped her and she shook her head, her brown curls dancing against her cheeks. She seemed completely without artifice, a rare trait in a young woman. Her grave grey eyes, when she looked at him, were candid, albeit wary, and the rare times he had seen her smile had stirred more than tenderness in him.

Watching her attempt to eat slowly, when she was so obviously ravenous, forced him to bite back a smile. He had no doubt that such a thing would send her scuttling back into her shell, or behind her walls. Instead, he concentrated on his own meal and let the silence hold sway.

He considered asking her about herself, but that line of questioning usually ended in her pointed remarks about his nose and her business not sharing the same space. Finally, when the last piece of bread had been devoured, he spoke.

"You've a charming spot of jam on your cheek, Laria. Shall I?" he asked, leaning across the table.

"If you wish to lose that hand," she replied coolly, leaning away from his outstretched fingers.

"What, in the Maker's name, are you so afraid of? I am no threat to you," Aerin said with a grin, refusing to allow her rebuff to upset him. A woman so intent on running must be afraid of the consequences should she not do so. Or so he planned to believe.

"That's what the wolf said to the farmer."

"Is that how you see me, then? As a wolf? I am flattered by that, my Lady Hawke. You do realize in some cultures the wolf is revered? In fact, according to the Chasind, wolves symbolize passion, family, deep faith, and are considered gregarious and steadfast."

"Yet in others, _Ser_ Bryant, they are seen as cunning and deadly."

"Only in the protection of their family. In that regard, perhaps you are closer to the wolf than you realize?"

He watched as her mouth curved upward in a reluctant smile. "There is no insulting you, is there?" she sighed, and Aerin felt warmth settle in his belly at her tone of gentle amusement.

"On the contrary, Laria. I am insulted that, after weeks of close physical contact, you still refuse to address me in any but the most formal of terms. Haven't we progressed beyond that yet? Are we never to be friends?"

"You would ask a farmer to befriend a wolf?"

Laughing, he shook his head. "I would, however, ask a hawk to befriend a wolf."

She stared at him, her eyes unreadable. "And who will protect my family should I befriend you?"

"You will, as is your right, but what family couldn't benefit from the aid of a wolf?"

Panic flitted across her expression, and she looked down at her hands. He saw her trying to compose a suitable reply, but, before she could answer, her sister entered the room.

"Laria, you should return home. I'm going to be here for hours yet," Bethany said wearily as she sank into the chair next to her sister's. "Mother will be worried."

"Rubbish! I'll not leave you in the…" Laria paused and flashed Aerin a triumphant smile. "…company of wolves."

Aerin found himself laughing as he went in search of sleeping accommodations for the Hawke sisters, leaving Laria to explain their exchange to her sister. There were several empty rooms and he asked Maron to make up two pallets in one of them.

"When you're finished, I need you to ride out to the Hawke farm and let Mistress Hawke know that her daughters will sleep under the protection of templars tonight."

Maron bowed, arms crossed in Andraste's blessing, before setting about his tasks. Aerin returned to the dining room to find Bethany bent over her stew. She was alone and he was surprised by the sharpness of his disappointment.

"Laria went out to gather more verbascum," she explained after she'd swallowed.

He nodded and turned on his heel.

"It won't do you any good, you know."

He turned back, raising a brow in inquiry. The younger Hawke's blue eyes met his and she shrugged. "It isn't my place to tell you why, but Laria feels she's to blame for us having to flee from our last home. She won't do anything to cause that to happen to us again."

It would have been nice, Aerin reflected dryly, if Malcolm had imparted that knowledge. The mage had explained only that she was afraid of anything that might distract her from her duty to family, even at the cost of her own heart. Aerin rubbed his forehead and wondered why _his _heart insisted on capturing hers.

He found her standing in the garden, a clump of herbs in one hand, staring up at the night sky. Stars stretched across the firmament, myriad pinpoints of light to remind them that they were not alone, that powers greater than themselves watched over them.

"The brightest star in the night sky is known as Liulfr, the Shield Wolf, among the Chasind, and the smaller star that looks almost golden? That is his wife, Namidron. It is said that she sings to him."

"How odd for a templar to know about Chasind lore," she replied crisply, already rebuilding the walls he had so carefully tried to break through. Maker's breath, but the woman was obstinate in her refusal to unbend even a little!

"Not so odd, my wife's mother is Chasind," he replied quietly.

"Your _wife_? What kind of a man pursues a woman when he is married?" she asked, spinning to stare at him, her face a mask of shock and outrage.

"_Was_. Gwyneth died ten years ago," he answered calmly.

He braced himself, expecting the usual offers of sympathy and condolences, or worse yet, pity. After ten years, he was heartily sick of hearing them, especially from people who had never known his wife. He had made his peace with her death and was able to speak her name without a sharp stab of grief. Even the dull ache had gradually diminished, and he could reflect on their brief time together with remembered happiness, not regret or sorrow.

To his surprise, Laria offered none of those things. She gave him a brief, rueful smile and the first threads of hope since he'd met her. "I apologize for my accusation, Aerin. It was unkind to assume the worst of you."

"Apology accepted, my lady Hawke," he responded warmly.

Standing in the dark, under the watchful light of the Wolf star, he smiled, sure he heard the first clear notes of Namidron singing to Liulfr.

_**A/N: **__Liulfr is Old Norse and means shield wolf. Namidron is actually two names combined: Namid is Cheyenne and means star dancer, Ron is Hebrew and means joyful song. This bit of lore is based, in small part, on star lore from various Native American tribes, and largely on my imagination._


	4. A Turning Blade

**A/N:**_ First, thank you, Lisa, for the wonderful, and speedy, beta!  
><em>_Second, an apology for not updating sooner...the holidays and a houseful of guests prevented me from writing! I hope everyone's holidays were great!_

**A Turning Blade**

_How quickly turns the blade when ill-fortune befalls._ _**Old Chasind proverb**_.

_Our forefathers tell us that during the Bitter Harvest, when the crops failed and the ground baked, a young maiden was brought forth and offered to Father Sky that he might once again bring rain to the lands. _

"_What crime has this maiden committed that you willingly sacrifice her?" Father Sky demanded, dismayed that the people had such little faith in him. Silence greeted the question and Father Sky shook his head, greatly saddened. Turning to the maiden, he asked for her name._

"_I am Aithne, oh great Father, and I surrender my life to you if it means our crops will not fail and the children will not suffer."_

_Father Sky nodded. "So be it, child, but let it rest upon the shoulders of those who offer you so willingly and yet do not make a sacrifice themselves."_

_Father Sky took up the maiden and placed her in the cool night sky, before returning and unleashing a mighty storm of wind and lightning upon the arid lands. He watched with great sorrow as fires sprang up from the lightning. Mother Earth wept as she watched her forests and fields blacken. But both knew that through fire came purification and so they let the fires burn._

_After the conflagration had consumed the forests and fields, a lone flower began to bloom in the scorched soil. As white as snow, it had a crimson center. It was a burning flower, many whispered, and those who witnessed its beauty, wept. _

"_This shall be known as Aithne's Heart; a reminder of one woman's courage," Father Sky commanded, before releasing the first drops of rain to fall on the parched lands. _

_**Chasing Chasind Lore, No Stone Unturned by Brother Genitivi****_

_**~~~oOo~~~**_

A warm, dry spring gave way to a blazing hot summer. In all her years in Lothering, Laria had never seen the fields so withered, or the river so low. People were whispering about drought and famine, demanding that Bann Ceorlic or Arl Bryland do something. There was nothing any of them could do, but it didn't stop the farmers from wanting a scapegoat or expecting help.

Wiping the sweat from her forehead, she tossed the rag aside and went back to watering the desiccated stalks, knowing she was watering death, yet unable to relinquish her hope. A lone cloud passed before the sun, mocking as the shadow passed over the earth, and she stood, stretching her back. The entire Lothering Valley was suffering the effects of too little rain and too much heat. As the unrest grew, she worried that sooner or later someone in town would blame the apostate for the weather and the failed crops. She and Carver took turns patrolling each night, worried that a mob, incited by fear and hunger, would come in search of Bethany.

"Laria Hawke! Look at you! Come in and clean up immediately!" her mother scolded in a stern voice.

Startled by the woman's tone, Laria glanced down at her worn trousers, now a dull brown from the dust caked into the fibers, before looking up at her mother. Standing with a regal grace, Leandra wore her plain gown with all the dignity of a woman of means. Her grey hair was carefully coifed, her blue eyes serene.

"Mother, I need to finish the watering," Laria began to protest, even knowing that her words fell on deaf ears.

"Carver can manage, dear. I want you with me today. We need to send a message to the townsfolk that we are in the same situation as they are. It will not do for them to see that we are afraid of them, or ashamed of Bethany. Do you understand?" Leandra asked calmly.

"Mother, are you sure that's wise?" Bethany asked, stepping into the blistering sun with great reluctance. Her fair skin was no match for the burning orb, and she shielded her eyes against the glare.

"Wise or not, Bethy, Mother is right. If we don't show ourselves in town, they'll think we have a reason to hide. And as superstitious as some of them can be, it won't take much for one of them to incite others."

"Then I should go as well, as a reminder that I'm nothing to be afraid of," Bethany said calmly.

"No! Maker's breath!" Carver yelled, moving to Bethany's side in a protective stance. "If you go into town it'll just serve as a reminder that you _are_ a mage!"

Laria nodded reluctantly. "It's a noble gesture, Sister, but I think it best if you stay with Carver. Mother and I will go into town under the pretext of selling eggs, and I'll have a look around."

"We'll also stop at the chantry. I've fresh plum jam for Her Eminence and it won't hurt to remind her that not three months ago Bethany saved her life."

Reminded yet again of her mother's canniness, Laria bit back a chuckle at Carver's look of astonishment. Those who saw Leandra Hawke as self-indulgent or haughty, saw only the surface of the woman. Underneath was someone who had spent her entire adult life on the run. She had had learned to read people and situations quickly and accurately as a means of survival.

"Give me a few minutes to clean up. Carver, hitch up the cart and make sure that Mab has water, while you're at it."

Carver's chin jutted belligerently at her instructions but he glanced at Bethany and lowered his head, striding off without a word. With a relieved breath, Laria went in search of clean clothes. She grabbed up her soft leathers and her sword before heading down to the river's edge.

The Drakon was not nearly as cool as it should have been, and she was able to walk out to the middle of the wide river before the water began to push and pull at her. Even then it lapped at her chin when it was normally over her head. She ducked under and allowed the deeper, cooler water, to wash away her weariness.

Struggling into her leathers a few minutes later, she sank onto a rock, trying to catch her breath and her thoughts. If there was even a hint of trouble, duty and promises to her father dictated that she gather the family and move. She closed her eyes, mentally tracing roads from an unseen map of Ferelden. There were a number of small farming towns to the southwest, or they could travel to the Bannorn where there were many places to hide if they were careful and worked hard. Maker, she didn't want to move, to leave friends and the roots that had taken hold within the community.

She ran her fingers through her damp curls, before strapping her sword belt around her waist. "Thank you, Carver. While I'm gone, finish watering the garden. I think the wheat is already lost, but we can't afford to lose everything."

"Please," he hissed. "_Please_. Could you just bloody say that word once in awhile? I'm not your servant."

Shame, as well as impatience, twisted in her as she helped her mother onto the cart. Andraste's grace, she was becoming a harridan and she was so tired her head hurt. "_Please_, Carver, would you _please_ finish watering the garden, _please_? _Please_ would you also watch over Bethany?" she shot back, her voice low and dripping with sarcasm.

"See? That's why I don't bother talking to you," he snapped, grabbing the buckets in his large hands and stalking to the well.

Maker's breath! Did everything and everybody have to be so bloody difficult? She handed her mother the reins and glanced over at Bethany, who wore a look of such disappointment that it stabbed into Laria's conscience. Sighing, she conceded silently that she was completely out of line. She cast off her ill-humor, at least for the moment.

"I'm sorry, Carver," she said, moving to place a placating hand on his arm. "I'm hot and tired, but that's not your fault. Please take care of things while I'm gone," she said softly.

"Of course," he replied with a slight smile. "That wasn't too difficult, was it?" he asked with a teasing glint in his blue eyes. She slapped his arm lightly.

"Damned difficult, actually," she responded and then turned and pulled herself onto the cart.

"We'll try to be back before dusk. Please be careful, Bethy. There's a sense of disquiet in the air."

Without mercy, the sun glared down upon the faded landscape with white-hot intensity. The sky was a milky blue, as if the sun's anger had leached the color from it. Rolling hills wore brittle brown mantles, and rows of withered stalks bowed down in submission as they rode past neighboring farms. Fear began to nibble at Laria's thoughts.

From a distance Lothering shimmered in the late afternoon heat, the tower of the chantry almost lost in the brown haze that had developed over the valley. She'd asked Quince Barlin about the haze because she'd never seen anything quite like it. He'd explained that it was dust and smoke. The farms to the east were burning off their own fields, rather than risk a wildfire. As if too hot and tired to do more than sigh, the wind allowed the smoky haze to hang in the air, heavy and oppressive.

"I think the chantry should be our first stop," her mother remarked serenely as they neared town. Laria didn't answer, merely guiding Mett towards the large building that dominated Lothering. After helping her mother down, she handed the reins to Deaglan, a young lad with a gentle touch. "Feed and water him and there'll be silver in it for you, Deaglan," she told him and he eagerly took the reins, nodding.

"It'll be done, Mistress Laria, that'n more!"

Her eyes wandered to the large, carved doors, hoping to see Aerin and then she blinked, appalled at having such a selfish thought. They weren't there for a personal visit; they were there to ensure Beth's continued safety. Yet her eyes turned away from the door with great reluctance. It had been weeks since she had been able to come into town for a sparring session. Weeks since someone had genuinely cared enough to ease her burden, if only for a few moments. Was that what he did? Ease her burdens? She rubbed a weary hand across her eyes. It didn't really matter, at least not at present.

Chanter Devons looked gravely at them, intoning: "For heaven or for earth, for sea or sky. All that existed was silence. Then the Voice of the Maker rang out, the first Word."

Mustering up a faint smile, she responded, "And His Word became all that might be: Dream and idea, hope and fear, Endless possibilities."***

The chanter bowed before he continued with the canticles, a sad smile winging across his face before it once more became a calm mask. He knew why they were there and he was concerned for them, she had seen it in his eyes for the briefest instant. Fear began to gnaw with hungry determination at her stomach, dissolving her remaining calm.

"While you're visiting with Her Eminence, I'm going to Dane's Refuge. Nothing happens in this town that doesn't start first in the taproom," she informed her mother.

"I hope we haven't waited too long," Leandra replied quietly, a hint of anxiety edging her words. As if aware of it, she lifted her head, a confident smile sitting comfortably on her lips.

In that moment, Laria felt a stirring of pride for the unexpected strength in her mother, but underneath was a frisson of resentment that she had not exhibited that strength more often through the years. Once again appalled at her thoughts, Laria pushed them down into a dark and unvisited place.

She made her way quickly to the tavern, exchanging greetings with acquaintances but not stopping to chat. There was a quietness about the day; a stillness. It was as though the town was holding its collective breath. Laria felt her nerves stretching, thin and sharp.

Pushing the tavern door open, she was greeted by an awkward silence; the silence that meant she'd interrupted a conversation not meant for her ears. She ignored the murmuring wave of bodies shifting uncomfortably, instead walking up to the polished countertop.

"I'll have a pint, Danal, and the latest gossip, if you'll indulge me," she said casually, trying to ignore the butterflies that had sprung to life in her stomach.

"It's good to see you, Laria," Quince greeted from across the room, raising his mug in invitation.

Her relief was immediate and brought a brief smile to her lips. Only her pride prevented her from turning and making her way out of the tavern. Danal leaned forward and offered her a rare smile. "You're welcome here, as always, Laria Hawke," he announced loudly.

A rumbling of discontent from one side of the room caught her attention and she glanced at a table set away from the others. An older man, with a grim countenance and a nervous tic, glared at her. He was surrounded by his son and several other men that Laria recognized as day laborers and local farmhands.

"Good afternoon, Master Pelham," she said quietly, striving for a light and friendly tone.

Harvice Pelham was a taciturn farmer who spent more time in Dane's Refuge than in his fields. His oldest son, Alvern, sat beside him, eyeing her with an embarrassed grimace. Her hand tightened reflexively on her sword hilt. He understood that his father was looking for a scapegoat, for someone to blame for the weather. And she understood it as well.

"Hardly a good afternoon for most of us, young Hawke. Seems like something – or _someone_ – has caused a drought."

Nerves thrumming, she nodded. "I'm well aware of the lack of rain, Master Pelham. We stand to lose our wheat and I'm doing everything I can to save the vegetables."

Danal set a tankard of ale down in front of her and gave her a sympathetic smile. "Best ignore him. He's been drinking most of the day, Mistress Laria," he warned in a low voice.

"Why are you here, girl? Come to gloat?"

"Don't be daft, Harvice. She just said she stands to lose her wheat, same as the rest of us. Don't be a braying old fool," Quince chided in disgust.

"Listen to young Quince, all full of vinegar and piss. Of course he isn't thinking with his brain, is he?" Pelham challenged with a leer.

"Shut it, old man. If you'd spent half as much time digging a deeper well as you've spent in here bellyaching and drinking, your crops might have had a chance," Quince retorted.

"Protecting your lady? What a laugh. Everyone knows she's not interested in men," Harvice scoffed.

A part of Laria was furious. She could feel the hot color creeping up to stain her cheeks, could feel her fingers tremble with anger, but another part of her was acutely embarrassed by the assertion. She moved to sit across from Quince, taking a long pull of ale.

"Seems to me we ought to be talking about ways to save our farms," Adam Morley said quietly.

"That's just what I was saying. Time to get rid of the _accursed one_," Harvice stated, leaning forward and shaking a finger at Laria. "It's her fault we've had no rain," he continued, warming to his topic.

No longer content to gnaw at her, fear spilled into her blood, twisting through her stomach. She tightened her hand on her hilt and stood slowly. "The only accursed one I see in here is you, Harvice Pelham. You didn't think she was accursed when she mended your broken leg three months ago. Nor did you think her anything but helpful when she tended your wife's sickbed a fortnight ago."

"The Maker knows what she is! She has brought his wrath down upon us!" the man yelled, pushing himself out of his chair and moving toward her, menace contorting his face.

Her sword slid effortlessly out of its scabbard and she pointed it at Pelham. A profound silence fell, her heart's wild beating the only sound in her ears. She blinked once and took a deep breath to steady her arm. "The first man who steps on Hawke land with harmful intent is the first man that will perish by my sword," she avowed, forcing herself to meet Pelham's pale green eyes.

"We'll see what Revered Mother Glynis has to say about that!" Pelham shouted, striding towards the door.

She watched him leave and then turned to the rest of the men grouped around his recently vacated chair. "If anyone else wishes to blame a girl for the vagaries of the weather, I suggest they rethink that notion," she said, amazed at how steady her voice was. She forced herself to meet each man's gaze. Tears burned savagely at her throat and she gritted her teeth, determined not to allow them passage. Her stomach clenched and turned over, but she stood her ground.

"Thank you for the company, Quince," she said quietly and walked out of the tavern on shaky legs. With a sigh of relief, she lengthened her stride, intent on reaching the chantry as quickly as possible. Another sigh of relief escaped as she stepped inside the cool, dark building.

"My Lady Hawke," Aerin said, looking equally cool and completely unruffled in his polished plate. "Lady Leandra is still visiting with Her Eminence."

That feminine part of her that she denied all too frequently wanted nothing more than to throw herself into his arms and have a good cry. His calm demeanor and faintly amused smile turned her heart into giddy loops. Instead, she glanced around the cavernous chantry and asked, "Has Harvice Pelham been in here?" in a voice that was cold and commanding. She felt distanced from herself, watching a scene unfold before her.

"What is it, Laria?" Aerin asked, voice deepened by his concern. He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to rest comfortingly on her shoulder.

"He's rabble-rousing, blaming Bethany for the drought and crop failures. I'm afraid that some of these people will listen. I won't let them drive us from our home. Not this time," she responded grimly. "He's convinced the revered mother will be forced to act against an apostate."

Her voice was a harsh whisper, and she glanced around the nave. A few worshippers were bent in supplication as they prayed, oblivious to her. Several brothers and sisters moved about the chancel and Brother Elbert was in his customary spot, lighting candles and tending the Holy Brazier. Everything seemed so ordinary and again, she felt as though she were drifting above the scene, as if it wasn't real.

"He's not been here, my lady, but I'll send some of the templars out to find him. I'm confident he was just talking; the man's too lazy to actually do anything."

She turned to him, anger bringing her closer to herself. "If only I had a sovereign for every man who was thought to be too lazy to do more than talk," she said bitterly and shrugged his hand off.

"You're right, of course. For want of a meal, men will do anything, won't they?" he asked softly and his voice beckoned her, bade her to lower her walls as it warmly wrapped around her.

"Please, Aerin, find Pelham and keep a watch on him. He's desperate enough to be dangerous."

A tear trickled down her face, scalding her skin and she sniffed. Maker, she would not lower her guard, not now, not ever.

"I'll do whatever I can, you know that, my lady," he reiterated, once more placing a steadying hand on her shoulder, his expression warm and compassionate. Temptation lay in his eyes, desire in his voice. She closed her eyes, so ready to talk that the words spilled into her mind, a cacophony in her head.

"Laria, there you are, dear! I had the most fascinating discussion with Revered Mother Glynis."

Her eyes widened, and, with a combination of relief and regret, she turned towards the sound of her mother's voice. Aerin's arm fell away and for a minute she felt bereft, abandoned. She hadn't realized before that moment just how hungry for touch the spirit became when neglected.

"Ah, Knight-Captain Bryant, you are looking well."

"Thank you, Lady Leandra. It is always a pleasure to see you," he responded with a small bow and a warm smile.

"Come, Daughter, if we're to be home before dusk, we should leave. Ser Bryant, you are most welcome to call on us at any time," Leandra added with a coy smile that brought a blush scurrying into Laria's cheeks.

"Then expect to see me soon," he said, his smile including them both.

He was too charming and too handsome by far, but she played their conversation over in her head the entire way home.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Bethany glanced up from her sewing and frowned at Laria. "Did you hear that?"

Laria tipped her head, listening intently. She frowned and then felt her blood drain away from her. A faint call, reedy and pained, out in the darkness, where Carver was patrolling. Laria rose with alacrity, slipping her sword out of its scabbard with a whispered snick of leather against the well oiled blade. "Mother, take Bethany into the tunnels. Now!" she added sharply when the older woman opened her mouth to protest.

She slipped out of the house, quietly shutting the door behind her and waited for a minute while her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Another muffled cry and then a low thud. Her need to call out to Carver, to reassure herself that he was all right nearly overwhelmed her common sense. She bit her tongue, tasting the salty copper of blood.

Squinting into the night she saw several shapes - bulky and furtive - against the side of the barn. She crouched low, making her way slowly across the open yard. There were at least three distinct shapes, possibly more. Heart pounding painfully in her chest, she crept forward. A twig snapped, followed by a guttural curse and a soft grunt, which told her exactly where at least one of the men was. The knowledge sent her nerves screaming along her skin.

She caught him from behind, surprising them both with her sword's quick, short thrust upward. She felt the blade move through soft flesh and graze bone. Her stomach lurched and her thoughts stumbled with the awareness that she had just mortally wounded a man. Her gorge rose as bile filled the back of her throat. She gagged, momentarily stunned, as the body listed sideways and then sank with a loud thud.

"Florrin? You there?" hissed a familiar voice, nearly on top of her. She sank down beside the body of Florrin and tears momentarily blurred her vision. Florrin Hacklesworth? The apothecary? Maker, she'd just killed Lothering's only purveyor of potions.

Pelham was so close she could smell his unwashed body; redolent of old ale, rancid oil, sweat and onions. Her stomach jerked and rolled. An odd echo of staccato heartbeats deafened her momentarily.

"Maker's arse, Florrin, let's get this done!" Pelham hissed again. "Jolby?"

"Yeah," grunted a voice several paces away. Jolby Drumble? Her heart sank in dismay. The day laborer hired out only when he couldn't cadge drinks at Dane's Refuge. He had three children by Widow Winona, for all that they hadn't married. A man of great girth and porcine features. She shuddered, her legs trembling with the need to move.

"Seems Florrin lit out. Go torch the barn while I get that apostate," Pelham hissed.

Her world exploded then as she pushed up from her crouch and launched herself in his direction, throwing herself at him with such force that they both careened against the well-house before crashing to the ground.

He rolled on top of her, pinning her to the ground. "Go!" he yelled, before returning his attention to her.

He was brutally efficient, his fingers digging into her throat and pushing on her windpipe. A loud rushing sound filled her ears, and she bucked and flailed, trying to dislodge him. The world was beginning to darken, fuzzy lights shimmering in the distance and she knew if she didn't dislodge him quickly, she'd be dead.

She twisted and turned, freeing first one hand and then another, an agonizingly slow process, or so it felt as her breath was choked from her. With her hands free, she brought them up and sank her fingers into his eye sockets, pushing her thumbs into his nostrils for purchase as she continued turning and twisting her body.

He screamed, an undulating squeal of pain that seemed to reverberate all around her. When he fell back, clutching his eyes, she scrabbled to find her sword, plunging it into his throat, cutting him off mid-shriek.

She tried to speak, to yell at Jolby to run, but her throat was too raw to do more than croak, savaged by Pelham's throttling. She pulled her sword out and shuddered at the silent ease with which it slid through Pelham's flesh.

"You crazy bitch! You killed Harvice!" Jolby screamed, raising a torch high above him as he surveyed the scene. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

"Run, Jolby. Run away now and you'll live," she whispered hoarsely.

"Fuck you, bitch!" he snarled. He raised his hand and brought it back. Steel bit into her shoulder, sending her reeling. He'd thrown a small dagger at her and she looked at it in surprise, before looking back up at the huge man now moving towards her with remarkable grace.

He was still a dozen paces from her when his chest exploded in a fiery mass, sending him to the ground, where he lay writhing in pain. Magic sizzled in the air above and around her and she sank to her knees, her sword falling into the dust as she gripped her shoulder.

"Don't pull it out!" her mother cried out in warning.

Numbly, Laria nodded, her breath coming out in halting gasps. She bowed her head and waited for it to calm so she could speak. "Find Carver," she whispered, her voice husky and harsh.

"I'll do it, Bethany, dear. You look after your sister."

"Oh Bethy," Laria gulped, tears flooding her eyes and racing down her cheeks. Great sobs were pushing at her agonized throat. She fought against them, refusing to let them come until she knew how Carver was. What if he was – she blinked, refusing her thoughts to lead her in that direction. She whimpered as the dagger was removed and then sighed gratefully as Beth's healing magic seeped into her shoulder. _Please, please, please be alive, Carver. _

"He's fine!" came her mother's relieved voice a minute later and then her sobs broke, spilling into the courtyard with noisy abandon.

Hastily scrambling away from her sister, Laria's stomach emptied and her sobs turned into pathetic little gasps as her tears continued. She looked down at her clenched fists. Blood was on her hands, literally and figuratively. She had killed without thought, without hesitation and the knowledge that she was capable of such action brought more tears tumbling down to splash forlornly in the dirt. Angry, she stood on shaky legs.

"Bethany, go back into the house."

"What? Why, Laria? I've already seen the men, if you're trying to spare me," her sister replied, an unspoken rebuke in her words.

"You saved my life, and I thank you for that, dear heart, but you used magic to do it and if I don't do something to mask that, everyone will know it soon enough. We can't afford to have that happen."

She watched as comprehension bloomed in her sister's blue eyes. The color drained from her cheeks and she staggered back. "Oh Maker, forgive me," Bethany whispered, searching Laria's face.

"It's all right, sister. The Maker knows you acted in self-defense. Now go inside, Beth," she ordered sternly.

A rebellious tilt of Bethany's chin gave way to a tremble and a nod. Laria stood and quickly moved to the barn. She gathered up several oil lamps and a torch and then knelt beside Jolby's body. She poured the oil from the lamps all in one spot, the spot where Bethany's fireball had torn his chest open. She lit the torch and then wrapped his hands around it, dropping hand and torch on his chest, singeing herself in the process. She fell back and jerked to her feet, stepping away and pressing her hands to her mouth as the smell penetrated the sultry night air.

"Maker's breath! What's that smell?" Carver asked, dropping beside her. A large lump had formed on the side of his head, and his eyes were huge in his pale face. She mustered up a weak smile.

"That's Jolby Drumble. He set himself on fire trying to burn the barn down."

"Maker, what happened? Are you all right?"

Was she? Would she ever be? She had killed to protect her family, but would the authorities see it that way? And when would more townsfolk turn on her family? Tomorrow? In a week? At the next sign of hardship? Her tears, dried by the flames that licked greedily at Jolby Drumble, relented and finally quit.

She drew a bucket of water from the well and doused the flames, her nostrils filled with the stench of burnt flesh, her stomach once more protesting. "As soon as you are able, I need you to ride into town and report this to the authorities."

"Me? This is your bloody mess!" Carver protested, moving away from her and the acrid smell of the smoldering body beside her.

"Don't do this, Brother," she whispered in warning, her voice still rough and her throat an aching misery. "I need you to bring the authorities back here. They'll want to examine everything and make a determination. I imagine they'll escort me into town to await that determination."

"I – Maker, you're right. But don't worry, Laria, it was self-defense and Maker damn any man who says differently!" he defended stoutly.

_Yes, but that doesn't make me feel any less unclean_, her thoughts whispered, echoing starkly in her head. She closed her eyes just as the first, distant rumbling of thunder rolled across the dark sky. She swallowed a bitter snort of derision.

A few minutes later, rain sluiced down her face, washing the blood away, but leaving behind the new wounds that scarred her soul.

_**A/N**__: ** Aithne means 'fire' and is an old Gaelic name. Her lore is a mix of Native American lore and my imagination. The 'saying' was one I made up, based on other, similar sayings. _

_***Canticles: part of Threnodies 5:1._


	5. Pride Dances with the Moon

**A/N: **_Thank you, Lisa, for seeing a glaring mistake and correcting it, not to mention cleaning up assorted comma faux pas. And thank you for not minding if I borrowed your wonderful Fletcher for a cameo. ;)  
>Thank you RakeeshJ4 for the insightful reviewPMs. I went back and altered the dialogue a bit. _

**Pride Dances with the Moon**

_A lion stood atop his hill, surveying his domain with great pride. No creature dared step foot in his lands for fear of his mighty roar. Tossing his mane, he continued watching until the sun gave way to the moon. _

"_You are a proud, noble being, Lion. What do you care if some lesser creature takes refuge in your fields?" asked the moon, smiling down at the lion._

_A mighty roar issued forth, and again, the lion tossed his mane. "I shall be vigilant and let no harm come to pass."_

_He eyed the moon suspiciously, for the moon hung low and heavy in the sky, its luminous glow casting a silver-hued blush over his lands. He roared again and the moon's smile deepened._

"_Do you fear me, Lion? Yet here I am, in the firmament, just as Father Sky intended. Do you think I am a threat from here?"_

_The lion moved, batting at a patch of brilliant light that radiated from the smiling moon. The patch disappeared and his chest puffed in pride. Another stream of light brightened the meadow nearby. With a roar, the lion ran to the area and swatted at it. He sighed in relief and swaggered through the meadow, king of all he surveyed. _

_Radiant rivulets of quicksilver spilled along the hillside. The lion streaked across the field to the hillside and roared again, great paws tangling with the streamers. The moon laughed. _

"_You cannot keep up, Lion. You must ask for help if you are to keep your domain free of dangers."_

"_No! I, and I alone, am responsible, and I will not relinquish the trust placed in me. I will meet this challenge, Moon!"_

_As the night wore on, the lion's movements became sluggish and the moon's beacon of light shone across more and more of his domain as it rose. Finally, the lion gave up, too tired to give chase to the dancing beams of light. He fell asleep, exhausted. As he slept, the moon danced across the night sky and disappeared. _

_In the darkness between moonset and dawn, coyotes crept past the sleeping lion and took all that the lion had pledged to protect. _

_In the morning, the lion awoke with nothing but his pride, a cold comfort indeed_.

_To this day a lion's family is called his pride_. **–** **A Chasind fable*****

**~~~oOo~~~**

As soon as Laria left, Aerin sent Adair and Munro to pay a visit to Pelham. The man was a wastrel, a malcontent who blamed everything and everyone for his own poor judgment and general laziness. While upholding the law was not entirely within his domain, he'd learned early on that the appointed constable, a man overwhelmed by his position, appreciated his help.

To his surprise, Ser Fletcher left his post, striding up the aisle with more confidence than Aerin had previously seen in the young man. He approached Aerin, who bowed slightly. "Fletcher? Is something amiss?"

"She's good reason to be afraid, Knight-Captain. Everyone sees Pelham as a harmless old drunk, but he's always had a meanness about him. Don't make the mistake of thinking he's without teeth."

The first knots of anxiety tightened his breathing. "I will make sure she's safe," he reassured the young man, who bowed and then returned to his post by the main doors.

An hour slowly went by, an hour that found him resolving petty issues, arranging schedules for patrols and attending to the daily minutia of life in the chantry. It proved to be a frustratingly long hour in which he felt pulled in too many directions.

Stepping out of the revered mother's office, Aerin made his way across the chancel to his own office, but, before he could open his door, he heard the metallic clanking of heavy plate moving in quickstep. He turned to see Adair and Munro hurrying up the aisle. Even in the dim light of the chantry, he could see their pallor. His heart slammed painfully into his ribs.

"Ser Bryant, we can't find him. We've searched the tavern and his farm and nobody's seen him since the dust-up with Lady Laria," Adair announced, breath ragged from exertion.

"What do you mean, you can't find him?" Aerin demanded, his voice sharp. His stomach clenched as he strode down the aisle and out of the chantry, calling out commands as he went.

"Maron, you're with me. Fletcher, stay and keep watch over Her Eminence," he instructed. He was surprised by how crisp and controlled his voice was. Inside, his heart was furious as it pounded an angry rhythm, keeping perfect time with Laria's words:

_Please, Aerin, find Pelham and keep a watch on him. He's desperate enough to be dangerous. _

"You others, search his usual haunts. Again. And do it _again_ if need be. Someone must have seen him. And contact Constable Grant; see if Pelham is sleeping it off in the gaol. "

Dusk's shadowy fingers crept across the landscape, leaving darkness in their wake. The smell of distant rain sweetened the heavy air. Aerin, swinging into the saddle and digging his heels into Aeolis's flanks, glanced at his companion. "After we check up on the Hawkes, ride out to Pelham's farm and question his sons. One of them must know where their father is!" he shouted above the noise of hooves striking the bone-dry ground.

Desperate men oft times resort to reckless measures. He had seen it in Denerim during his tenure there, seen it in both Highever and South Bridge before that. He'd been at the receiving end of desperate acts. Why had he been so slow to react? Why had he not seen the danger growing as the drought deepened? He'd never considered Pelham as anything more than a whining malcontent, but now he prayed that he would find all well with the Hawke family.

Rain traveled on the wind. As a farmer, Pelham could feel the rain's approach, had to know it was coming. Perhaps he had gone off to celebrate with a jug of barley-beer. Yet, even as those thoughts flashed in his head, he knew that men like Pelham would always need to blame others for their misfortune and ignore any blessings in their lives.

_Please, Aerin, find Pelham and keep a watch on him. He's desperate enough to be dangerous. _

Her voice, low and urgent and far too serious for her age, continued to niggle at his thoughts, eating away the edges of his calm. He should have insisted one of the templars escort her home and take up a post at their farm. Maker forgive him his arrogance in thinking he could be their sole protector.

A horse and rider loomed out of the darkness and all three horses reared at the near-collision. Hooves pawed the air and struck the ground as the three riders brought their horses back under control.

"Maker! You bloody fool, you nearly killed me!" a familiar voice cried out angrily.

"Carver?" Maron asked.

"Maron?" Carver queried, his voice reedy and shaking, doing nothing to dispel the growing anxiety that gripped Aerin's heart with steely fingers. "Thank the Maker! Come quickly!"

"Carver? What's happened?" Aerin demanded, pulling up beside the young man. His horse nickered, stomping the ground impatiently. The smell of leather and sweat was thick in the air, and beneath those smells, was the smell of fear and blood.

"It's – she – come on, damn you, there isn't time!" Carver shouted and disappeared into the gloom.

He passed Carver seconds later, and then turned to cut across the fields, praying that Aeolis found no rabbit or fox holes. The sound of withered stalks crunching beneath the horse's hooves served as a bitter reminder of just how desperate people were becoming as their crops failed.

Thunder rumbled, low and long; it seemed to reverberate through him as he rode. The sky split in a brilliant flash of lightning as a deafening clap of thunder boomed overhead. The rain began, not as a gentle shower, but ferociously, the wind whipping it against his skin like needles hurled by an angry seamstress.

Aeolis leapt over a small ditch, nearly unseating him as his thoughts became more distracted. He should never have let her leave the chantry without him. He should have seen to their safety. It was the only thing that Malcolm Hawke had asked of him. He swung Aeolis hard to the left and clattered into the courtyard as another shaft of lightning illuminated an eerie, grisly scene.

Two figures, huddled together near a body that reeked of burnt flesh, stood out in stark relief and then disappeared momentarily as the lightning blinded him. Looking around, he spied another body, arms flung wide, as if to embrace the rain, laying a few paces beyond.

He dismounted before his horse came to a stop, running to the figures outlined by another flash of lightning. "Bring me a lantern!" he shouted above the wind, and the younger Hawke daughter nodded, pushing herself away from the figure that huddled on the ground, trembling.

He knelt, resisting the urge to gather Laria in his arms, but only just. Instead, he worked on gentling his voice so that he wouldn't frighten her. That she was in shock was evident, but the reason for it was unknown and until he knew, he didn't want to alarm her.

"What happened, Laria?" he asked, a part of him marveling at his composure. His mind was a turbulent reflection of the weather crashing around them.

"Dead. I – I killed them a-a-all," she stammered and he realized how violently she was shaking.

Bethany handed him a lantern and he held it aloft, making out a body, a large one. He squinted, peering through a veil of rain. Was that Jolby Drumble? And beyond that, was that Pelham? His eyes focused on Laria. Her lip was bloody; even with the rain washing everything away, blood kept welling and when Bethany bent over her with a cloth to staunch the flow, Laria pushed it away. Her left eye was swelling shut, and a gash on her cheek oozed blood that turned a pale pink as it was washed away by the rain.

It was her shoulder that caught and held his attention next. Her linen shirt was torn open, exposing a raw wound that bled freely. Why in the Maker's name hadn't anyone done anything to close the wound? He gently pushed the torn edges back and examined the injury. A clean gash, likely from a dagger, judging by the size of it, and a thrown dagger at that, if the angle of entry was any indication. He glanced up at Bethany. She raised her shoulders in a shrug of helplessness.

He returned his gaze to Laria and his eyes fell to her neck, where ribbons of red were already darkening into bruises that clearly formed fingers. Someone had choked her, and from how rough and raw her voice was, they had nearly succeeded in killing her. Blunt, thick fingers. Pelham? Drumble? Someone else?

"Her wounds need tending," he said, surprised by the edge of accusation in his voice.

"She let me remove the dagger but when I started to tend the wound, she pushed me aside and refused. If we don't clean and close it soon there's a real danger of infection setting in."

He nodded and then gently cupped Laria's chin. He had to reach past the shock that had her in its thrall. Somehow. To that end, he straightened the hand that cupped her chin, lightly tapping her cheek to gain her attention.

"All? Who, Laria? Who did you kill?" he urged quietly, his voice nearly drowned out by the rain drumming into the parched earth. She shook her head and refused to meet his eyes. He tried again. "Are you hurt, my lady Hawke? Might a wolf see to your injuries?"

A flicker of recognition in her eyes and then it was gone as she began to shiver again. He stroked her cheek lightly. "I'm here to help you, my dear. Tell me where you are injured."

"You c – can't help. I k – killed them all," she whispered, stricken, looking down at her hands, neatly folded in her lap. "Do you understand, Ser Bryant? _I_ killed them all," she said, her voice more forceful.

Another lantern appeared and then Leandra brought two more. She stood silently and in the lantern's light she appeared pale, but calm. She met his gaze and shook her head as she raised the lanterns high. Blinking at the brightness that illuminated them, he tasted the bile that rose in the back of his throat as he took in the scene. Slowly, he stood, the creak of his armor loud in his ears.

He went first to Drumble, who had a gaping, charred hole in his chest, radiating outward. Much of his clothing on his torso was burned away, exposing blackened skin and worse. The dead man still clutched an unlit torch, and a bucket, quickly filling with rainwater, sat beside him. There were scorch marks and blisters on his hands and the smell of lamp oil was strong.

Yet, for all the evidence pointing to the man setting himself on fire, Aerin sensed there was more to it than that. In all his life he'd never seen a man burned quite like that unless magic was involved. He looked over his shoulder at Bethany, who was trying once again to clean and bind Laria's wounds.

The Hawke family had been raised to zealously protect its own and he knew instinctively that they would rally behind Laria's version of the truth. The question that dogged him as he continued examining the scene was whether he would as well. Constable Grant would use Aerin's impressions of the crime, as well as his recommendations, when it came time to render judgment. For a man who prided himself on his honesty, Aerin felt a tickle of doubt begin to erode his natural self-confidence.

The storm was passing, leaving the air clean in its wake. Aerin felt the wind brush against his skin and welcomed its cool touch. He stepped carefully through the mud to kneel beside the next body. Pelham was face up, and the rain had washed away the filth and blood from him. His eyes were narrowed, as if in agony, as he stared sightlessly at the night sky.

Aerin bent lower and examined the eyes, which were bloodshot and sunken, as if great pressure had been exerted on them. He sat back on his heels and ran a hand through his wet hair, pushing it aside. Somehow during the ride his neat braids had come undone. A brief unhappy smile flitted across his features and was gone. _He_ felt as if he was coming undone.

He cast another glance at Laria and saw that she was sitting docilely as Bethany tended her. Bethany sent him a quick, small nod and mouthed a silent 'thank you' before returning to her work. Thank him? For what? Not being there in time to prevent the tragedy from occurring in the first place?

He turned away from Bethany and Laria, examining Pelham's hands. They were small and square with blunt, thick fingers. To his disgust, he noted that the hands were not nearly calloused enough for a farmer's, but definitely fit the marks on Laria's neck. From the torn and twisted clothing, it was obvious there had been a violent struggle of some sort and it was equally obvious that Laria's sword had found the man's throat. The blood that had pooled beneath him had soaked into the soil but it was obvious the man had died quickly. What a shame, Aerin reflected coldly as the picture of just what had transpired began to emerge.

The arrival of Carver and Maron distracted him, and he turned to watch as Carver knelt beside his sisters. Bethany was brushing Laria's hair away from her face with gentle strokes. There was tenderness in her expression, and, as he watched, he saw Laria lean into her sister's touch, her shoulders slumping.

"Andraste's grace, what happened?" Maron breathed, coming to kneel beside him.

"I'm not entirely sure yet, but it seems as if Pelham and his cronies decided to burn the Hawkes out. His Grace, Arl Bryland, decreed that arson during this drought would be punishable by death and it would seem that sentence has been carried out."

He found Florrin Hacklesworth twenty paces away, leaning against the side of the barn as if he was just pausing to catch his breath. For a brief pause, Aerin wondered if the apothecary was alive, but the sword wound indicated otherwise. He shook his head in admiration of her skills. She hadn't wavered in the least, but thrust with a sure and steady hand. There were no lacerations or small cuts that would indicate she had hesitated. Malcolm would be pleased at her response, and furious with the need, no doubt. Maker knew _he_ was.

Satisfied that he'd gleaned all he was going to from the scene, he made his way back to the Hawkes. Laria's head snapped up at his approach and there was a flash of anger in her grey eyes. She could not possibly be angrier than he was at himself for not returning to the farm with her and arranging a detail to keep watch on the family. It was a templar's job to protect a mage. He had failed in that, and if Laria hadn't been trained to fight, he would be preparing a very different report for the constable.

"Before I inform Constable Grant of this, I need to know what happened," he began but Laria cut him off.

Her voice was husky and rough from the throttling she had received, and full of an implacability that he had yet to breach. "They knocked Carver out, came up to the house with the intent of burning us out, and I killed them all. There is nothing more to say."

"My lady, I must disagree," he said quietly and then looked at Carver. "You were rendered unconscious?"

"Bloody right I was. Got smacked in the forehead and that's the last I knew until Mother woke me," the young man stated emphatically, rubbing the large knot on his head. "Otherwise I'd have been the one to kill them."

Aerin noted that Laria was beginning to shake again and he glanced around. "Maron, ride into Lothering and inform Constable Grant what has happened. He'll need to notify the families. Tell him I am still investigating the incident and he will have my statement before nine bells tomorrow."

Maron bowed, gave Leandra an apologetic smile, and mounted.

"Inform Revered Mother Glynis, as well," he added quietly.

"Yes, Knight-Captain," the templar replied and rode off.

"Carver, take Bethany and your mother into the house. You all need to change out of your wet clothes."

Leandra nodded and spoke in a soft voice, "Be gentle with her, Ser Bryant, she's still in shock over what's happened."

"Of course, Mistress Hawke," he reassured.

"I'll put the kettle on. We all need a cup of strong tea," Bethany added, pushing Carver towards the house.

"Alright, Bethy, no need to shove," Carver complained, turning to look back at Laria. "You hurt her and you'll deal with me," he added, glaring at Aerin.

Too late, he wanted to say, but kept his thoughts to himself. His pride, her pride…they'd tangled into a knot that had hurt her deeply. Practicing to kill someone was greatly removed from the actual act of doing so. There was a resistance of flesh and bone as a sword point was driven in, a reverberation that traveled the length of the sword arm and rested in the gut. To watch the life seep out of someone, no matter how badly one wanted them to die, left a scar on one that never completely went away.

"Laria, I know that Lady Bethany used magic on Drumble. A fairly strong fireball, if I'm not mistaken."

Panic flared in her eyes before dying away as she forced herself to meet his gaze. "I killed those men," she stated firmly. "Bethany was inside with Mother. Carver was unconscious in the fields. _I_ killed them before they could kill my family."

"I can't protect you from the law if you don't tell me the truth. All of it," he replied just as firmly.

"Protect me?" she asked, her husky voice thick with emotion. "Protect me? I did what was necessary, Knight-Captain Bryant. There is nothing to protect me from."

A shudder wracked her slender frame and her eyes blinked back tears. He saw them glittering in the light from the lantern. He reached out and wiped gently at her cheek. "I wasn't here when I should have been, and I will always regret that, my lady, but I am here now. I can help you through this ordeal but only if you will trust me."

"I expected it to be more resistant to the blade," she whispered. "I thought…" she trailed off, wiping at her tears with the backs of her hands.

He waited, knowing the emotions would overwhelm her if she didn't talk about them. Guilt had a way of destroying even the strongest. And Maker, she was the strongest person he'd ever met. Too strong. Too proud. Too stubborn. And he loved her.

The revelation didn't even surprise him. He'd known he was attracted to her, believed that fate, or the Maker, had brought him to Lothering because of her. "You thought killing a man would be harder than it is," he finished. "You thought it would take more force to push the blade in. You're appalled at how easy it actually is."

She nodded, tears streaming, to drop off her nose and chin. He wanted to gather her into his arms and reassure her that everything would be all right, but he knew she would not thank him for either action. "Believe me, my lady, it is much more difficult than you realize to kill a person. The physical part is easy enough, I grant you, but the emotional impact remains."

She was shivering and he heard her teeth chattering, but he stayed beside her, waiting for her to determine what happened next. Words, reluctant and seasoned withgrief, began to tumble out of her through the tears, gaining momentum like stones rolling down a hill, as she continued to give them voice. He sat quietly, listening to her paint a nightmare scene, anger roiling quietly inside him.

He knew instinctively that she was telling the entire story, without prevarication, once she confessed Bethany's role in the events. He was thankful for that. Knowledge was as sharp a weapon as any sword and he would have to wield it in the days to come if he was going to defuse the situation. Three men had died, and there would be those who demanded retribution. He could always guess who the loudest of those would be. He let his fingers touch her cheek again, a brief caress that let her know she was not alone.

He would help her naviate the upcoming ordeal, bringing the full weight of his office to bear. It was the very least he could do. And maybe, in the end, it would be enough.

He had lost one woman through his pride, he would not lose another.

**A/N:** _In medieval times, arson was actually one of very few crimes that demanded the death penalty without reservation. _

_The fable is a combination of Native American lore and my imagination. _


	6. The Shadow Walkers

**A/N:**_ Thank you, Lisa, for cleaning up this long chapter of wayward commas and garbled sentences._

**The Shadow Walkers**

_In the Caliginous Age there were naught but shadows. Our tribes wandered in the darkness, seeking sanctuary and light. They found, however, malevolent spirits that fed on fear and clung to the shadows, creatures of the dark mist that thrived on chaos. Whole clans disappeared in those tenebrous lands, never to be seen again. The shadows themselves became as a living creature, twisted and tainted by hatred. The tribes of the north despaired that all would perish. _

_Then, as is sung in the Naissance Paean, Mother Earth and Father Sky breathed life into the world and the winds carried the sun into the sky. Darkness receded as the sun settled in the heavens. The tribes of the north united in their wonderment. It was a time of joyous celebration and renewal._

_Unbeknownst to the tribes were those who continued to walk in the shadows, seeking to return the world to perpetual darkness. Even now they live in the places where light dares not go. These apparitions are neither spirits nor demons. They are as insubstantial as the air, as black as a moonless, starless night. They are called the Shadow Walkers. _

_Ever do they lurk where mortals cannot see them, causing mischief and misery if one is blessed, and great harm if one is not. They are a reminder of our mortality, a harbinger of ill, and they must not be ignored. Face them, but do not linger overlong in the darkness for the Shadow Walkers sense fear and anger, bitterness and regret. They feast on such emotion, just as we feast on joy and light. __**From the teachings of Idris Closivar, High Shaman, as recorded by her granddaughter, Freya, the last of Clan Closivar*****_

The night passed with painful slowness. Laria drank several cups of strong tea, wishing she trusted herself to add brandy to it as the idea of drinking herself into a stupor was tempting. It was also counterproductive. Instead, she sipped the warm liquid and hoped it would ease the painful swelling in her throat.

Bethany wanted to throw herself at the mercy of the constable and townspeople, overcome by remorse and guilt for killing a man. Her face was as pale as moonlight, her eyes luminous with unshed tears. She repeated her wish, with great fervor, and Carver shook his head stubbornly.

"Don't be stupid, Bethy. Grant would toss you into a cell until the templars came to cut you down, those miserable bastards," Carver finally growled at his twin.

"That's unfair, Carver. There are a number of good templars, at least in Lothering," Bethany argued, pointedly staring at Aerin. Laria winced, but an odd lethargy held her in its grip and she did no more than shake her head, any reprimand lost to her weariness.

Aerin was sitting by the fire, studying the flames that licked greedily at the dry pine logs. A log shifted, sending a dazzling shower of sparks into the room, golden motes of fire that winked out as they fell. He didn't seem aware of them, or of Carver's jab, so deep in thought that he seemed oblivious to all of them.

Laria shuddered, wondering if her fate would dictate she become the log of her own death pyre. Surely they didn't still burn criminals at the stake? And she was not, by the Maker, a criminal. She had defended herself, as was her right, under the laws of Ferelden. She blinked and looked away again, staring out of the window. Someday, she might even believe it.

Night was reluctantly giving way to morning. Sunrise was a murmur away; soft pinks and golds entwined as they crept across the sky, giving notice to the pearly grey of their arrival. The storms of the previous night had fled, leaving the air sweet and bracing.

Laria longed to go for a walk, to breathe in the clean air in the hope of settling her mind, but she stayed where she was, curled in a chair. She wondered if _any _of their crops had survived the onslaught of rain, the force of which had battered the withered stalks, beating them to the ground. The irony of rain ending the drought but destroying the last of the crops only darkened her mood.

What would the day bring? Would she be placed in the public cells that stood in the town square so that everyone could witness her shame and guilt? Would she be sent to the gaol in Denerim, reputed to be so horrendous that death was deemed a mercy? Or would Grant understand that she had acted in self-defense and leave her to make reparations to the men's families? _Could_ she make reparations for the loss of a man's life?

"Whatever we decide, we need to do it quickly. Constable Grant will be expecting your report soon," Laria said, addressing Aerin, her voice still husky from the throttling she had received. Would the constable recognize that she had nearly been killed by Pelham? Absently rubbing at the bruises on her neck, she pushed her feet to the floor and stood.

"And I think we should have some breakfast before we leave for town," she added firmly.

Aerin frowned at her, massaging his temples as if to ease a headache. "A moment, Laria. I would speak with you in private."

Carver, who was already striding toward the kitchen, stopped and then spun around to glare at the templar. "Anything you have to say about this isn't private. Laria's been through enough," he said, his tone low and belligerent. He folded his arms across his chest in a gesture that was at once mulish and protective.

Laria felt a moment's irritation followed quickly by a rush of love for her brother. He was striving to take their father's place, and she could not find it within her to chastise his mistreatment of Aerin. She composed a smile and let it play across her face, hoping that Carver could see her pride in him. She had her doubts as he seemed disinclined to believe he had any worth at all. It was his self-doubt that often made him appear unrelentingly furious as he sought his place in the world.

Anger flashed like summer lightning in Aerin's expression and then he shrugged. "If your sister wishes it, I will not argue," he said and there was a stiffness and distance in his voice that surprised Laria. He was angry and she wasn't sure why.

"I'll be fine, Carver, but thank you," she reassured.

"You'd better be or _he'll_ have to deal with me," the young man said, pointing a finger at Aerin.

Another flash of anger came and went, so quickly that she thought she might have imagined it. She sank back into her chair, stretching her legs out and sighing wearily. The night had been interminable and the day ahead would prove to be as well, she was sure.

"What is it?" she asked, confident that she knew what he'd say.

"You and Bethany should do as I advise and leave immediately for Hedwynn. Gwyneth's clan will take you in and protect you until this all blows over."

She was not at all surprised by his words, but she was still confused by his suggestion. He was a man of integrity and honor; to compromise his principles for her would destroy any chance at a future they might have. He would resent it, she would regret it, and it would eat away at them until there was nothing left, not even the hope of a 'someday' together. That thought brought an unhappy snuffle of laughter to her. Dying wouldn't give them much of a future, either.

"That is not your head speaking, Aerin. You want to keep me safe and I thank you for that, but I will not allow it."

They'd had the same discussion four times and each time she had refused. He stood, taking short, agitated steps around the room, looking as though he wanted to break something, his behavior completely out of character yet oddly endearing.

"At least pretend to consider it," he snapped.

"There is no surer sign of guilt than running away. You know this," she replied , her voice quiet but firm.

"What I _know_ is that I will not sit by and watch you and your sister tossed into the gaol or worse. Do not ask it of me."

There was an urgency in him, a pent up energy that seemed to radiate from him. The energy plucked at her nerves, sending muscles stretching thinly over bone, feeling as though her skin would rip and pull apart. She took a deep, calming breath as she stood up. She didn't need his anger; she needed his clear-headed and rational thoughts on what they should do. They'd been at loggerheads all night over the issue.

"Don't you trust Constable Grant to adjudicate this matter fairly?" she asked, her voice rasping. She swallowed a gulp of tea, grimacing as her throat protested.

He crossed the room, long legs propelling him quickly to stand before her. There was more than anger in his dark eyes; there was fear lurking in them as well. "I have little faith in most people's ability to judge without prejudice, and I have seen bigotry in too many men not to fear it now," he replied, his voice no less raspy than hers, but for different reasons.

He looked tired, fine lines weaving a tale of the long night. She raised her hands, fingers reaching for those lines, suddenly wanting to ease his weariness, as well as his fear. Maker's breath, she was a fool to even contemplate such an act! She dropped her hands and quickly turned away.

There had been a moment, out in the rain, when she had thought to offer herself to him in exchange for keeping silent about Bethany's role in the events, but the words had died, unwilling to allow themselves to be spoken. She would not put either of them in such a position. But Maker, it had been tempting.

"People are looking for someone to blame for the crop failures and the drought. They will seize on anyone, Laria, even someone as good and kind as Bethany."

"Then let them blame me! Those people who know that Bethany is good and kind also know that I am neither of those things. They will be more than happy to fix the blame on me. Let them."

"By the grace of Andraste, I will not see either of you blamed!" he roared, slapping at his leg with the flat of his hand. "There has been enough bloodshed, and your willingness to martyr yourself for the sake of your family is unconscionable," he continued and there was a hot fury underscoring his words. "Malcolm would never have sanctioned such a notion. He understood that protecting his family called for sacrifices of pride and honor at times. You must see that," he ended, his voice gradually losing its anger, leaving fatigue in its wake.

She took a step back, and then another, her need for human warmth and comfort overtaking her resolve to confront the constable alone. Aerin must have seen something of it in her expression because his voice was soft but compelling when he spoke again.

"Please, Laria, trust me in this as you trusted me with the truth."

"I should _not_ have told you about Bethany. There was no reason to, other than your persuasiveness, but I did so in the hope that you would help. Sending us away does not strengthen our case for self-defense. It undermines it, and I can't understand why you fail to see that, Aerin."

Silence fell in the space between them, an unsettling silence that said too much. She watched the man before her waging an internal battle of some kind. He looked human, and vulnerable in a way he had not before. He became real to her in those moments and it shocked her to realize just how much she cared for him, how much she wanted to ease the pain that had flashed so briefly across his features.

"Some day, when there isn't a chance of an angry mob marching on us, I will explain to you how my wife died, but today is not that day," he replied, turning to gaze out of the window. She allowed her eyes to follow his .

The dawn heralded the arrival of what promised to be a dazzling morning. The pinks and golds had given way to brilliant blue, and white clouds drifted with lazy disregard across the sky. If only the day would remain this beautiful, she thought wistfully, before returning her attention to Aerin.

He was obviously struggling to regain his calm. His perfect mask has slipped, and no matter how much he wanted to put it back into place, he couldn't. She watched as realization came to him, wondering what she could say to help him regain his footing and then chastising herself yet again for caring whether he did or not.

"Are you two coming to breakfast or can I eat your portions?" Carver asked, poking his head into the room.

"A moment more, Carver. And mind you leave us some eggs," Laria responded, mustering up a smile that sat uncomfortably on her lips.

Once Carver had returned to the kitchen, she turned, offering Aerin a grim smile. "As soon as we've finished eating, we should saddle the horses and get into town before that mob you're so worried about arrives." Her humor fell flat, but it gave them both time to collect themselves.

It was during a muted breakfast of eggs and thick slices of cold ham that an idea flickered to life. She glanced up, feeling the first bubbles of hope begin to awaken.

"I have an idea," she said, looking at each person gathered around the roughly planked table.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Aerin cupped his hands, offering her help into her saddle. He resisted the impulse to wrap an arm around her and lift her into the saddle. As much as he found comfort in touch, he was intuitive enough to realize she would not suffer _his _touch this day. She grabbed Mab's thick mane and stepped onto his hands, pushing herself up and swinging a leg over the horse's broad back. Once seated, Laria looked down at Aerin and a smile lit her eyes, caressed her lips, and disappeared.

"No matter what the constable decides, Aerin, thank you for your help."

Help? Had he truly been of any help – any use at all – they would not be resorting to lies and subterfuge because he would have damn well been there when she'd needed him. But he was infamous for his ill-timing when things were dire. He sought to walk a road that appeared straight and narrow, but it took unexpected dips and turns that tripped him up time and again. No matter how much he pretended to be a roguish charmer, he knew he was just a man who stumbled through life like any other.

The trip into Lothering was quiet. Several glances at Laria reassured him that her shock was beginning to wear off, though the effects would not go away so easily. Killing a person, no matter how justified, took something away from a person. He had seen enough mercenaries and soldiers to know that damage was permanent. He knew it first hand, though he hated admitting it, even to himself.

He edged his horse closer to her, maintaining just enough distance to keep the horses from shying. "My Lady Hawke, are you quite sure you are up to this?" he asked quietly.

She tilted her head, her brows drawing together as she considered his question. "Yes, I want this behind me," she confided with a rueful smile that almost reached her solemn grey eyes.

She stretched out a hand, bridging the space between them. He took it in his and gently clasped it before resting it on his thigh. She didn't remove it, letting it rest lightly on him, an insubstantial weight that reassured him on some level. The contact was intimate, not an invitation for greater liberties, but as an acknowledgement that she was grateful for his company.

It had been so long since anyone had touched him in any manner at all, other than the customary blessings or greetings that were a polite necessity. Surreptitiously glancing at her from lowered lids, he realized that she was completely unaware of the effect her touch had on him. How could she know? He had barely realized it himself. But now that contact had been made a calmness began to seep into his tired muscles. He rested his leather-clad hand on hers, hoping she was experiencing a lessening of tensions as well. With a click of tongue and teeth, he guided his horse at a slow pace, avoiding the many puddles and mud-holes that dotted the road.

Lothering's windmill loomed on the horizon and Aerin felt his muscles tensing again. Laria must have felt it as well because her hand curled tightly against his thigh. "We'll get through this together. But should the worst happen, I offer you sanctuary in the chantry," he reassured, feeling far from certain of the revered mother's acceptance of such a plan.

They entered the village from the west and he shaded his eyes against the blinding sunshine. A crowd was amassing in the square. Aerin's heart clenched in his chest and he felt Laria's fingers tremble against his thigh. She retracted it and he saw her stubborn pride welling up as she straightened, squaring her shoulders and raising her chin slightly. As they passed through the knot of people, Aerin's hand, no longer clasping hers, rested on the hilt of his longsword and his eyes searched the faces of those who had gathered. Most looked dazed and curious but there were always those ready to foment unrest given even the slightest provocation. A thought he should have had days ago, he reflected bitterly.

Maron was waiting for him in front of the small office used by the constable. After helping Laria down, he pulled Maron aside and quickly explained the situation. "Inform Revered Mother Glynis. She will follow my lead in this matter," Aerin instructed his subordinate with more confidence than he felt. "And put the templars on alert," he warned in a low voice. Maron nodded once and then set off for the chantry.

As he had several times earlier that morning, he sent a prayer out to the Maker and his Bride, as well as the gods of the Chasind. Gwyneth had teased him unmercifully about his fickle religious beliefs, but he was of a mind that if praying to one god was helpful, praying to a multitude of them was even more so. And while he believed _some_ of the Chantry's dogma, he did not believe in the entirety of it. Humans, not the Maker and his Bride, had written the canticles and whenever man was involved, so too were opinions and biases.

Laria was holding herself stiffly, waiting for him to escort her in.

"Hey, shouldn't she be bound?" someone shouted.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Laria flinch slightly and the color fled her cheeks. Anger leapt to life, a living flame in his blood as his eyes scanned the group of townspeople now gathering around them. On the edge of the crowd, standing in partial shadows, was Thom Hacklesworth, son of Florrin Hacklesworth and a troublemaker on any day, but a cowardly one who struck from the sidelines and rarely in a manner that demonstrated even a scintilla of courage. As soon as Thom realized he'd been noticed, he stepped back into the shadows, but the damage had been done. Others were nodding and edging closer. A low buzz rumbled through the crowd and Aerin spoke up.

"We don't bind those who have yet to be accused," he remonstrated coolly, refusing to step back from the advancing crowd. Panic was there, waiting to take control of his limbs, his mouth, his brain. He shifted slightly, the creak of armor loud. He let the tension ease from his shoulders as he watched the mob for any signs of trouble.

The door opened and Constable Grant stepped into the sunlight, his face contorted with disgust. "You people get back! We will have order here!" he shouted, waving his hands. "I speak for His Grace, Arl Bryland, and you _will_ heed my words!" he added for good measure.

Aerin urged Laria forward and she stepped quickly across the threshold. Once safely inside, Aerin's heart began to slow and he tried to offer Laria a reassuring smile. She nodded her thanks and waited silently for Grant to return and begin the proceedings. He would require two citizens to witness the hearing and when he entered the room with two men, relief flooded into Aerin.

Jacobius Dilbey and Avery Winmot were both intelligent, honorable men. For the first time since leaving the Hawke farm, Aerin felt a stir of hope that she might yet walk free.

"I had only a brief report from Ser Maron. I will now hear your statement, Ser Bryant," Grant said solemnly.

Aerin gave a brief account of what had occurred, carefully avoiding certain details. While his account wasn't a complete fabrication, certain salient points were glossed over or neglected entirely. Somehow he would have to accept that he'd been less than forthcoming, that he'd deliberately obfuscated certain parts of the story, but he had to believe what he did served a greater purpose.

Grant frowned and glanced at Laria. Aerin allowed himself to take a deep, steadying breath. "And is there anything you would wish to add, Lady Laria?" the constable asked.

Laria dropped her eyes to her hands and then raised them again, a hand coming up to unfasten her high collar. She touched the angry bruises that ringed her neck. "Forgive my voice," she rasped, her voice a husky whisper of distress. Aerin found himself hiding a smile behind a feigned cough. "I have yet to recover from Ser Pelham's attack, you see."

A murmur of sympathy from the men greeted her words. Grant moved closer to examine the marks and he was shaking his head, offering words of comfort.

Aerin had underestimated her acting skills. He shouldn't have because he knew only too well the lengths she would go to protect her family. For the briefest moment, he felt both envious and resentful of those who could inspire such devotion from her. Startled, he redirected his thoughts. His pettiness made him feel both childish and churlish, and he tamped those feelings down, trying to school his face before he gave even a hint of impropriety to Grant or the two witnesses.

"I am sorry that you had to suffer such an attack, Lady Laria. Your family has always done right by the folks of Lothering. It is a shame that a few forgot that."

A moment of silence descended, causing Aerin's nerves to tighten again as he waited. Finally, Grant turned to her. "I am surprised not to see Mistress Hawke accompany you," Grant began, his voice carefully neutral. "Nor young Master Carver."

"They are off visiting old friends in the south, Ser Grant," Laria replied after a brief hesitation. "She took Bethany with her so I insisted that Carver accompany them."

Laria paused and looked around the room. She nodded her head at a pitcher of water that stood on a table across the room. "May I?" she rasped. The next moments were taken up by Grant fetching her water and her grateful thanks. Aerin admired her consummate skills but he also saw her paleness, her shaking hands, and knew the whole ordeal was taking a toll on her.

"Constable, I urge you to move this proceeding along quickly. Lady Laria has yet to be treated for her wounds, other than in the most rudimentary way, and I want her to be seen by Lay Sister Farina."

Grant nodded, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "I can see you acted as you deemed necessary, young woman, but three men are now dead by your hands. Justice demands recompense for that."

Disappointment and unease tickled along Aerin's nerves, the feeling of ants crawling on his skin. He took one step forward before he caught himself from moving to her side. It wasn't as if the people of Lothering weren't aware of his feelings, but there was no need to call attention to them.

"How did you manage to fight all three of them? Drumble wasn't a small man by any standards," Grant continued, his voice becoming as hard and dangerous as polished marble.

Laria's eyes darted to Aerin and he stepped forward again, his voice taking on the cold command of his rank. "I have explained how that was managed, Grant. You have all you need to pronounce sentence and I implore you to do so. The poor woman should be seeking medical attention, not being interrogated."

"I understand your concern for her, Ser Bryant. I believe we all do. But my instinct tells me there is more –" Grant began, only to break off with a loud curse as the window shattered in a fine spray of glass.

Instinct triggered and Aerin dove across the room, pulling Laria to the floor with him. A large rock sat not far away. Another followed in its wake and Laria let out a cry of distress as it flew past. "Burn the murderess and her witch of a sister!" someone shouted.

Aerin pushed himself up, fury propelling him forward, but Grant was ahead of him, pulling open the door and shouting, "That will be enough, all of you! I will not tolerate a scene, and don't think I won't put the lot of you in gaol!" the constable roared. "And I am not about to pass judgment on this woman or her family based on what a bunch of unruly malcontents demand!"

"Well what are you gonta do about her? She killt three men an' if you dasn't punish her, I've a mind to do it meself!"

"Stand down, Thom Hacklesworth, before you get into more trouble than you can handle," Grant ordered.

Fear and fury fought for prominence as Aerin listened to the back and forth. He wondered if he would be able to get her to the safety of the chantry through an angry crowd and cursed himself for falling into league with her plans. He should have insisted that she leave with her mother, but even as he thought that, he knew she would never have agreed, that it would have destroyed her to do so. Maker, she was the most infuriating, stubborn and remarkable woman he'd ever met.

"Let her go, Grant, she's done naught but protect her family just like any of us would," Jacobius spoke up, his brusque voice loud enough to be heard over the din.

"Aye, I'm in accord with Jake. She's suffered enough," Avery agreed, coming to stand with Aerin.

"I can't do that until I'm satisfied, and I still have questions. As long as these fools are shouting and carrying on, I can't concentrate on those questions or the answers."

He turned to face the crowd again. "I am two beats away from arresting the lot of you! Now clear out. Especially you, Thom!"

A low rumble of protest gave way to the sound of shuffling feet as the mob began to disperse. Aerin's breath rushed out and he ran shaking fingers through his hair.

"Now, everyone sit down and let's finish this," Grant continued, moving to right an overturned chair.

Aerin snapped his gloves against his leg impatiently. "What else do you need to know?"

"Did Bethany have aught to do with this?" Grant asked, searching Aerin's face. "Maker's mercy, Bryant, you know I have to answer to his lordship and he'll ask the very same question."

Aerin's breath paused, held inside by a heart gone still. The truth trembled through him and he was silent as he considered his answer. "If she wasn't there, how could she have used magic?" Aerin asked carefully. A look of understanding passed between the men and Grant nodded once.

"Lady Laria, I know you acted as you thought best, but restitution must be made to the families. Have you the means to pay each family twenty sovereigns?"

Silence fell as Laria shook her head, stunned, her eyes seeking Aerin's. He mentally calculated the amount of coin he had, or could raise, and it fell woefully short. As a servant of the chantry, he had little money of his own.

"Maker's arse, Grant! Nobody in Lothering has that kind of coin!" Jacobius exclaimed indignantly. "Except Widow Winona and she isn't likely to pay retribution for the murder of her lover."

"That's the amount set by the Crown as fair recompense," Grant replied, looking stricken. "I'm sorry, Lady Laria," he added, bowing his head.

"Do not even think to put her in a public cell or the gaol," Aerin began angrily, stepping in front of Laria. She placed a shaking hand on his arm, urging him to calm himself, her voice little more than a rattle of tears and shock.

"The law is set, in this regard, Bryant. Even if people weren't in the streets shouting for her head, I couldn't just let her go, you know that."

"They aren't in the streets shouting, they're hiding in the shadows like the cowards they are, Grant," Aerin argued, his anger surging.

"There will be enough trouble with the sentence as it is, and if she can't pay the fines then she has to serve a five year term in the local militia," Grant replied, a note of apology in his voice.

Turning to Laria, he continued, "You are to report for muster a week from today, Laria Hawke. You will serve the South Reach militia for a period of five years. You will muster with them each week, bivouac with them for two weeks in the summer, and be prepared to be called upon to serve Ferelden in the event of war."

Laria sank down to the floor, her face white and twisted with grief and fear. Aerin knelt beside her, a gentle hand resting on her shoulder. Laria sat on the dusty floor, shaking, refusing to let go of her pride and cry. He admired her, envied her, loved her. The words of his late wife tumbled out of him, the only comfort he could offer as the others looked on.

"The Shadow Walkers have no power for they are blinded by the radiance of a resolute heart."

* * *

><p><em><strong>***<strong>__The teachings are taken from various cultures, as well as my own imagination. Clan Closivar, and Freya, are from a collaborative story entitled "The Grey Tales" that icey-cold, Gene Dark and I wrote under the name of Genespira Cold. It's about the founding of the Grey Wardens. For those interested, _Idris_ is Welsh, and means _fiery leader_. _Hedwynn_ is also Welsh and means _fair peace_._

_A/N: It was not uncommon to be conscripted into an army or militia for breaking the law. Hawke, if not a mage, was in the army at Ostagar. It is difficult for me to believe that someone charged with protecting her mage sister would willingly join the army, taking her brother with her and leaving her mother and sister defenseless. _


	7. Tears of the Mourning Star

**A/N: **_Thank you for your help with this, Lisa. Your suggestions, as always, were spot-on. Hope you feel better soon!_

**Tears of the Mourning Star**

_Long ago, when the mountains were little more than hillocks, a star appeared low in the night sky. It was a pale grey color with a cascade of silver tears trailing behind it, and it appeared to loom closer with each passing night. _

_The ground began to tremble as the star approached. Prayers beseeched Father Sky to protect the great clans of the north, but to no avail. Trembling became shaking and still the star came ever closer, its tears falling to earth. As it drew nearer great rains came, heavy and unrelenting like the tears of a woman in mourning. Yet still could we see the star, even in the midst of the rain._

_Many nights passed as the star traveled across the home of Father Sky. Where once had been arid lands there were lakes, fed by rivers that roared angrily over their banks. Many were lost to the floods or trembling, and the star became known among our people as Glahseren, the Mourning Star. _

_When at last the Mourning Star departed, the lands were forever changed. Growth sprang up in once barren lands, rivers ran in new directions, life flourished in unexpected places. We mourned our losses but celebrated our victories. _

_All life is a cycle, a pattern that repeats constantly. So it is with the Mourning Star. It is a herald, a paean of joy, of the new cycle. Watch for the return of the Mourning Star, look for her tears and celebrate, for with them comes renewal. _ _**Found in a tattered and worn book entitled**__: __**Stories of the North Wood Tribes**_

**~~~oOo~~~**

Morning crept closer, no more than a hint of pink in a fragile grey sky. A stir of wind, scented with roses and freshly turned earth, brushed tenderly against her skin. She glanced to the east, and, for a moment, she felt at peace as she watched the rays of the rising sun paint golden filigree against a deepening lavender sky. But, even as the sun took possession of the sky, clouds in the south began their assault.

"You were supposed to rest," Aerin chided quietly from the shadows.

"I was supposed to do a great many things," she replied solemnly, the bitterness creeping in despite her efforts.

"Perhaps I should go and cut some willow reeds for you?"

His tone was almost unkind, and definitely mocking. She blinked, surprised to see his unfailing courtesy slip. Tilting her head, she studied him in the pastel glow of dawn. He looked as tired as she felt. She leaned closer and saw a few silver strands among the dark. She noticed smudges under his eyes, and new lines fanning away from them. Her impulse, as it had before, was to reach out and run her fingertips along those lines to ease them, and it angered her that she still had such a desire.

Four days had passed since her sentence had been imposed, three since the messenger had been sent to the Chasind village where her family was staying to let them know she was all right. Each day had seen torrents of rain falling from a dark and violent sky. She had yet to make her way home, remaining in the monastery with the initiates instead, though she'd been given her own small room. Sooner or later, she would have to face the farm...and her fears. She felt her spine stiffen as she straightened. Her father hadn't raised her to shirk her duties and responsibilities, yet she had allowed Mother Glynis and Aerin to convince her to stay in the chantry. They claimed it would help her gather her strength. It seemed only to make her feel weaker and less in control.

Maker, how was she going to explain to her family that she was a conscript? She had tried, in vain, to find a different solution but no amount of arguing with Grant had changed his mind. Even Aerin, as charming as he was, had not swayed the constable from his position. Finally, she had given up, instead reminding herself that a few years of service in a militia that only mustered once a week and went on maneuvers only once a year was hardly the same as being conscripted into the royal guard or the Ferelden army. Her fate could have been much worse. She ought to be grateful for that small mercy. She found she wasn't.

"I'm not in need of a whipping willow," she replied after several moments of silence, her voice stilted and cool.

"I disagree. You aren't sleeping, you aren't eating. You have spent countless hours sitting in the gardens, in the rain, staring at nothing, clenching your hands into such tight fists that your nails have bitten into your flesh. I have seen the marks and blood on your palms, Lady Hawke. If that isn't punishing yourself, perhaps you will explain what it is?"

Laria blinked, the anger in his words penetrating her barriers to land with unerring accuracy. Turning away from him, she paced the length of the garden before wheeling and pacing back. "I am here, at _your_ invitation, to rest," she replied coolly.

Andraste's grace, this was not how she wanted their morning to go. She gripped her hands and took a deep breath, reaching for the stoicism that had helped her through her father's death. "I appreciate your concern, Ser Bryant, but I assure you, I have no desire to punish myself."

A well-formed brow rose and there was a sadness in the smile hovering about his lips. "Of course not. That you aren't eating is merely a coincidence. As is your refusal to sleep, no doubt."

Anger needled at her nerves, taunting her carefully constructed composure as it wicked its way under her skin to heat her blood. "Stop it," she whispered harshly. "Stop it!" she commanded with more strength.

"Of course, Lady Hawke. Far be it from me to show you any truth other than your own." Sorrow underscored his tone, as if he'd held a similar conversation with someone else but to no avail. There was a certain helplessness entwined with the sorrow.

She stared up at the sky, now moving effortlessly from deep violet to a bright, clear blue. Clouds continued amassing as they moved relentlessly onward. After months of drought, the rains seemed determined to stay until the rivers overran their banks. She should get back and make sure the house was protected from floodwaters. It would be so easy to remain where she was, fixed in a constant twilight, without responsibilities. Too easy. She had drifted for days, but admitting that meant dealing with things she was trying to avoid.

He was right about so many things, and yet she couldn't bring herself to unbend and tell him so. She knew she needed to let her grief and anger come out, but the thought of losing the last few strands of her dignity, as well as her pride, held her prisoner. She felt brittle, like a clay pot that hadn't been properly fired. It would take very little for it – her – to shatter.

She found she was shaking again, the strain pulling her nerves into a taut wire, vibrating with the need to scream at the Maker for his intolerance and abandonment, to beg for forgiveness from the families of those she'd killed, to give voice to the sobs that pushed continuously to be released. For long moments, she couldn't speak and when she finally did, Aerin was gone, slipping back into the shadows of the walled garden, a wraith untouched by the morning sun.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"Lady Laria, please wait for Ser Bryant. His orders –"

"I don't care what his orders are, Maron. I am going home. Now. You may ride with me, or not, as you choose."

She cinched the saddle and tested it, slipping a finger between the cinch and Mab's belly. A shadow fell across the door, like a cloud passing in front of the sun, and she glanced over her shoulder to see Aerin standing in the doorway, arms folded, face masked by the gloom.

"Ah, I see our Lady Hawke takes wing," he began, waving a dismissal in Maron's direction and stepping into the stables. In the filtered light, she saw his face was far graver than his words. Maron disappeared through the open door, his armor rattling in his haste to get away.

"Unless you are holding me prisoner here, I see no reason why I shouldn't," she replied as she ran the tie-strap through the girth ring and knotted it. Her fingers reflected her voice, stiff and unyielding. It took three attempts before she had secured the leather strap.

"There's no need to hold you prisoner, Laria. Your pride is doing an admirable job of that."

The barb stung as it founds its mark. Why was he deliberately provoking her? Had he no idea of the fury that raged within her? He cared about her, why was he trying to hurt her?

"Cry, damn you," he cursed in a low voice, moving to her. A hand, neither gentle nor rough, settled on her shoulder. His other hand moved to cup her chin, tilting her head up to meet his gaze. "Just give voice to your emotions before they devour you," he urged, his voice straining against the patience he had shown her earlier.

"I have no desire to cry. Nor am I the emotionally overwrought woman you seem to think I am," she argued, jerking her chin from his grasp and returning to her task of saddling Mab.

"If I believed that, Laria, I wouldn't be standing here now."

"And if I felt the need to be cloistered here, I would stay. But hiding here solves nothing, aids in nothing. I need to get back to the farm and set it to rights."

Refusing to say more, she pulled herself into the saddle and carefully walked Mab around Aerin and out of the stable. The sun nearly blinded her, dazzling and warm against her cool skin. Without a backward glance, she spurred her horse and rode out of the chantry's courtyard, turning onto the back road to avoid riding through Lothering.

Mab's gallop turned into a mincing walk as the roads, still thick with mud from days of rain, were treacherous. The horse refused to do more than take dainty steps around the mud-holes, much to Laria's consternation. She needed to get home. Urgency plucked at her, pushing her onward, twisted and tangled with the fear of what she would find once she arrived.

Concentrating on Mab kept her mind from spiraling back in on itself, examining and re-examining every action she'd taken the night of the attack. There were moments, late at night when the world was sleeping, that her mind replayed the events over and over, always seeking a different outcome.

Glancing behind her, she wasn't sure which feeling angered her more…the relief she felt at not seeing Aerin riding up behind her, or the disappointment that he hadn't said something that would have made her stay. The contradictions only added to the turmoil she felt.

"Papa bear," she whispered, tears welling. She swiped at them, furious with her weakness. How disappointed would her father be to see her now? She was doing a very poor job of taking care of the family, had done something he had never been forced to do because he had never allowed himself to be put into such a situation. He would have packed everything up and left long before the circumstances had become dangerous to the family. Why hadn't she? A question whose answer danced away from her.

Dead stalks of wheat had been crushed and drowned by the rain, leaving mounds of debris in tidy rows. But there was also new growth, small green sprouts poking bravely out of the mud, tended by an unknown hand. Had the family returned without her knowing? Where had the seedlings come from? She slid out of the saddle, her boots sinking into the soil.

Kneeling beside the sprouts, mindless of the wet earth, she studied them, confused. Someone had grown the seedlings and transplanted them. The growth process took several weeks, so someone had used at least part of their own seedlings. But who? And why?

Glancing around, she noticed that the mounds of dead wheat had been deliberately piled up, that they were ready to be gathered and burned away from the newly planted oat seedlings. She stood and bent to brush at the mud caking her trousers, trying to calm the rapid beats of her heart.

Had Aerin sent some of the templars and lay brothers to plant a new oat crop? Where had he obtained germinated seedlings?

Footsteps, muffled by the water-soaked soil, sounded behind her and she swung around, nearly nose to nose with Quince Barlin. She let out a startled cry and instinctively reached for her sword as she stepped back. Recognition finally made it past the fear and she dropped her hand from the hilt of her sword.

"Laria, I didn't think you'd be back yet." His eyes darted nervously between her and the seedlings.

Her heart collided with her stomach. What was he doing? But she knew, saw it in the quick, furtive glances he sent the seedlings. He was her unseen benefactor. Why? What would possess him to jeopardize his own oat crops for her family? She stared at him, trying to gather her scattered thoughts.

"Quince, you shouldn't have used your own seedlings," she protested, once her heart had calmed. Reaching out a hand and laying it lightly on his arm, she allowed herself a smile. A dull red flush suffused his neck and face.

"It wasn't just me. We all donated some of our seedlings."

She felt weightless, as if she could float away on a middling wind. Who were 'the all' he'd mentioned, and why would they help _her_, of all people? Hadn't she just killed three of the town's citizens? Speech deserted her as she stared around her, taking in the neat rows of newly planted seedlings. There looked to be enough to take them through the winter if they were frugal. She could not understand such generosity and she ducked her head to hide tears that formed. Blinking rapidly, mind working slowly, she wondered what she could say in the face of such kindness.

"Quince – I – how…" she trailed off and tried again. "I will never be able to repay you."

"No need to repay, Laria. Most of us feel partly responsible for what happened. We heard Pelham's threats and ravings. We should have set up a watch, or warned you to leave until things settled down. We didn't do anything and you paid for it."

It was too much for her to take in. Tears continued to gather but she dammed them behind closed eyes, willing them away through sheer stubborn determination. "Who else?" she finally managed, her voice made thick and uneven by her emotions.

"It would be easier to say who didn't."

She stared at the man before her, unable to speak around the lump in her throat. He'd been the object of her first serious infatuation, and later, he'd become her first and only lover. Now, looking abashed, her best friend gave her a sheepish smile. She reached up and caressed his cheek with fingers that shook. They knew, without speaking, how moved she was, and how honored. He nodded, meeting her gaze and holding it.

"Don't leave, Laria. Don't take your family and run. There's no need," he commanded and then gave a self-conscious laugh. "I'd best get back to my place. Da will be looking for me and it looks like another storm's heading this way."

She moved closer and brought her lips to his cheek, her hands reaching around his broad shoulders. The physical contact centered her, brought her body and mind back to share the same space. "Thank you, my dear friend," she whispered before stepping back.

He took his leave quickly and she watched him until he disappeared over the crown of a low hill. Even after he was no longer visible, she found herself staring after him and only slowly became aware of the shrill, raucous call of crows, the sweet chirrup of chickadees and the low hum of bees; the sounds of life.

Breaking out of her reverie, she made her way to the small, neat house that had been home for nearly eight years and would remain so, it seemed. She was having trouble believing, in _allowing_ herself to believe. Before entering the house, she stopped by the well and drew a bucket of water, but stopped as memories flooded through her…

_Pelham was so close she could smell his unwashed body; redolent of old ale, rancid oil, sweat and onions. Her stomach jerked and rolled. An odd echo of staccato heartbeats deafened her momentarily._

_"Maker's arse, Florrin, let's get this done!" Pelham hissed again. "Jolby?"_

_"Yeah," grunted a voice several paces away. Jolby Drumble? Her heart sank in dismay. The day laborer hired out only when he couldn't cadge drinks at Dane's Refuge. He had three children by Widow Winona, for all that they hadn't married. A man of great girth and porcine features. She shuddered, her legs trembling with the need to move._

_"Seems Florrin lit out. Go torch the barn while I get that apostate," Pelham hissed._

_Her world exploded then as she pushed up from her crouch and launched herself in his direction, throwing herself at him with such force that they both careened against the well-house before crashing to the ground._

_He rolled on top of her, pinning her to the ground. "Go!" he yelled, before returning his attention to her._

_He was brutally efficient, his fingers digging into her throat and pushing on her windpipe. A loud rushing sound filled her ears, and she bucked and flailed, trying to dislodge him. The world was beginning to darken, fuzzy lights shimmering in the distance and she knew if she didn't dislodge him quickly, she'd be dead._

_She twisted and turned, freeing first one hand and then another, an agonizingly slow process, or so it felt as her breath was choked from her. With her hands free, she brought them up and sank her fingers into his eye sockets, pushing her thumbs into his nostrils for purchase as she continued turning and twisting her body._

A scream broke from her and then another. She gripped her sword, swinging around at the sound of mocking laughter. Pelham, dirty and bloody, advanced on her, his sword drawn, sneering at her. "Don't be afraid, little girl…we only want your sister."

Another scream rose up in her throat, but died away as she brought her sword up, pointing it at the advancing figure. "Please, Pelham, don't make me do this," she pleaded, stepping back. Still he kept advancing.

"Laria!"

She blinked once, twice, and again as her eyes slowly focused. She stared at her drawn sword and then at the man who was calling her name so insistently. She felt as if she was viewing everything through a long tunnel.

"Aerin? I – I thought …" she began and then trailed off. She carefully re-sheathed her sword and stared around her, feeling confused and embarrassed.

He came to her and his hands gripped her arms, his expression concerned. "Laria, do you know where you are?" he demanded urgently.

She glanced around, letting out a shaky laugh. "I'm home, obviously. You frightened me, sneaking up on me like that. And," she continued, looking pointedly as his hands, "you're hurting me."

Aerin gave her a gentle shake and dropped his hands. The color had drained from his tanned face, and his concern was palpable. "You called me Pelham," he said shortly, stepping back.

She shook her head in denial. "Don't be ab – I would never –" again she trailed off as the truth filtered in.

She turned away from him, her feet taking her across the courtyard, away from him. Was she unhinged? How could she have thought Aerin was Pelham? The memories had been so vivid, so real. She closed her eyes, rubbing at her temples, disgusted to feel the press of tears in her throat once more.

With the disgust came anger, and she spun around, pointing a finger at him. "You keep pushing and pushing, but I want to forget!" she shouted at him. He flinched at her words but held his ground as she continued to pace around the yard. "You want me to cry, you're impelling me to do so, but I can't!"

"Why can't you?" Aerin asked, his voice as calm and still as the air before a storm.

She stopped pacing, her shoulders stiff. "Because there isn't time to wallow in self-pity."

"My dear Lady Hawke," he said sorrowfully, stepping closer, but she shook her head, holding up her hand to stop him, to shove him away if necessary. Her self-control hung perilously on the edge. She would be Maker damned if she would allow it to slip over.

He would undo her. He would unwind the carefully knit cocoon she had woven to protect herself. She could already feel the seams pulling apart. Panic awoke as more threads unraveled.

"You have to deal with this, Laria."

"I just need to forget it!"

"That is the surest way to remain centered in the past, to give it control. Let it out."

"I won't! I can't!" she cried out, but it was already too late. The pain and fear, the guilt were all bubbling to the surface, threatening to spill over.

"Why? Why can't you?" he asked as if he already knew the answer. But they both knew the truth, and she finally gave voice to it.

"I'm afraid," she whispered, head bowed and fists clenched tightly. She wouldn't be able to stop once she started. All the tears and anger and grief would overwhelm her and she would never be the same person again.

It was the sound of the robin's song that finally released her tears. The force of them, so long held at bay, staggered her, dropped her to her knees. She covered her face, trying to block out the memories of that night but they came with wicked purpose, determined to undo her carefully constructed calm. Sounds emerged from her that humiliated and humbled her; primal screams, whimpering, curses against the fates, against the Maker, against herself.

To his credit, Aerin knelt beside her, his arm, steady and comforting, pulling her close. A murmur of soothing words whispered against her ear, and she sobbed out her anguish, her anger and her fears in a torrent, until she was exhausted.

**~~~oOo~~~**

The rain arrived after dinner. He'd managed a decent enough meal, given the limited amount of unspoiled food, and she'd eaten it with more relish than she'd previously shown for food. There had been little conversation during the meal, even less while they cleaned up and washed the dishes.

As the rain gathered strength, the steady drumbeat of it on the roof made them both drowsy. Their game of cribbage forgotten, Laria yawned widely and then excused herself. He noticed that she left her door open but he stayed where he was, stretching his legs towards the fire. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but thoughts of her played against his closed lids.

Hours later, when the rain was no more than a dripping mist, he heard her cry out in her sleep. He stood up, stretching tight muscles and listened for the sound again. He could hear her thrashing about and he moved with quick, sure steps to her bedroom.

A candle burned low on a table beside her bed, and she murmured something unintelligible in her sleep, fretful and restless. He pulled up a chair and sat down, offering quiet reassurances until she calmed and fell into a deep sleep again.

He watched her, curled on her side and hands tucked under her cheek. A stray curl brushed against her forehead and he allowed himself to brush it back. She had cried for so long and hard that afternoon that she'd become dehydrated, her breath shuddering through her. But she had finally begun the slow process of healing, and he was grateful for that.

She stirred, rolling from her side to her back, flinging an arm up to cover her eyes. "I know you're there," she said, her voice husky with sleep and the after-effects of her tears.

"I'll sit in the other room if it will help you sleep," he offered. He hoped she wouldn't send him away. He felt as though he'd spent most of his time in Lothering chasing after her only to be rebuffed. Obviously my wooing technique needs a great deal of work, he thought wryly.

She lowered her arm, her solemn grey eyes meeting his. "No, I don't want you to go," she confessed, pushing herself up on her elbows. "It's just that, right now, I'm not sure if I want you near me because I'm frightened of being alone, or because I care for you," she admitted honestly.

"At your pace then, my lady Hawke. That you want me near is a start," he replied after a moment. His disappointment added only a slight hitch to his smile.

The past four days at the monastery, watching her as she stumbled, lost in her own darkness, had shown him just how solitary his life had become since Gwyneth's death. His fellow templars, members of the Chantry, even the Revered Mother, were friends, but none of them had ever penetrated his own carefully constructed walls. Laria Hawke had breached the walls and carefully wrapped herself around his heart and she had no idea how fragile a creature it was. Now, in her house, amongst the trappings of her life, he wondered if he shouldn't leave before they were both hurt, even knowing it was far too late.

"Now, how about some tea and honey for your throat?" he continued, standing and moving quickly to the door.

"Yes, please. I'll be right there."

A few minutes later, standing in the small kitchen, waiting for the water to heat, he heard her soft footsteps padding across the wooden slats of the floor. His heart dipped and then began to beat loudly and plaintively as her hand came to rest on the small of his back. For the first time in years, he was unsure of what to do, so he did nothing, waiting for her to speak, feeling much too vulnerable for his liking.

"Aerin," she began softly, her hand moving slowly up his back.

He bit back a groan, his desire leaping to life. He felt like a randy young boy, unable to maintain his control, and that thought brought with it the knowledge that he was pathetically grateful for her touch. Her fingers slipped into his hair, scraping gently at his scalp and his earlier groan turned into a barely disguised growl.

"Aerin," she whispered, her breath warm against the back of his neck.

Either she had no idea how badly he wanted her, or she was a tease, and he could not believe the latter. He leaned against the counter, his erection straining against his leathers. Maker's breath, had she no idea how desirable she was? How badly he wanted her?

"Please, Aerin, look at me."

To his regret, her hand fell away then. He took a deep breath, feeling an odd sensation of heat seeping into his cheeks. He was blushing like some daft, shy adolescent, something he hadn't done in a very long time, at least not because he was attracted to a woman.

He turned to face her and she was so close he could see the gold flecks in her grey eyes, so close he could see his reflection in them. So close she no doubt felt the physical presence of his attraction to her. She held his gaze, reaching up to brush at his hair, to let her fingers trail along his cheeks before falling gently to his shoulders.

"I want you to stay because I care," she said softly. "Please."

Still he did not do what he wanted, letting her determine the next step, but his heart was racing, his skin tingling at her touch. His eyes swept shut and his breath caught. It had been too long since he'd felt the light touch of a caress on his skin. How could anyone think the love between two people was wrong? That it detracted from service to the Maker? It only added to it, gave it depth and meaning…enriched it.

Her lips brushed against his, light and tentative at first. He willed himself not to move, to let her be the guide, but he felt his resolve weakening as her hands caressed his shoulders. A soft moan escaped from her as she leaned against him, her lips pliant and warm against his.

He broke away, finally, his breath quick and his heartbeat erratic. "Are you sure this is what you want?" he asked, suddenly aware that her answer had the power to uplift him or crush him.

She brought her hands up, gentle fingers tracing the planes and angles of his face. A small smile played across her lips. "You sound worried," she teased. "Does this mean you aren't nearly as cavalier as you pretend to be?"

Relief, love, desire all rushed through him at her words, at the teasing lilt of her voice. She was invigorated, awake and aware for the first time in days. The woman he'd believed in, the woman of such strength and conviction, smiled at him. And with her renewed spirit came his salvation. It flooded into him, through him, the knowledge that there was a future, no matter how tentative and difficult, with the woman who had captured his heart.

The ache of loneliness eased. His answering smile lit his face, was reflected in her eyes. This was a start, a new beginning for them both, and he accepted the gift without question.

"My lovely lady, never let it be said that a wolf fears a hawk."

**A/N**_: Glahseren is a combination of two Welsh names and translates to: Raining Star._

_Most ancient cultures viewed the arrival of a comet as a harbinger of death, a destructive punishment, and/or the work of evil deities. But there were several cultures, including a few small tribes in Northern California, who viewed them as a herald of a new age, and they were a cause for celebration. They accepted that there would be great upheaval first, but that a peaceful and joyous new age would follow. They rejoiced for the future generations who would benefit from their sacrifices, if it came to that. _

_A robin represents growth, change and renewal. The mnemonic for a robin's song is: cheerily, cheer up, cheer up, cheerily, cheer up. _


	8. Song of the Kingbird

**A/N: **_My humble thanks to Lisa, for her quick and helpful beta. You are brilliant, as always! Also, thank you for letting me borrow Fletcher again. I love him to bits and hope I didn't mangle him too badly._

**Song of the Kingbird**

_In the time before, when Mother Earth and Father Sky first breathed life into the land, men and animals were equal, and all creatures respected the ground upon which they walked. Man could become an animal and an animal could become a man. They walked together, spoke the same language and there was balance in the world. _

_One day a shaman named Deyanir decided he wanted to have dominion over all other creatures. His power was great and he stood atop a mountain, watching and listening to those in the valley where man and animal lived without strife. His power continued to grow and as it did, he changed, becoming as dark and twisted as a nightmare. _

_The people and animals became too afraid to speak, knowing that whatever they said would be heard and understood by Deyanir. Mother Earth watched, but had promised with that first breath of life, not to intervene in the lives of her children. However, when she witnessed Deyanir's power growing, she had a vision that he would bring death and destruction to all of her other children. She called upon the kingbird to take a message to her children. _

"_Protect your homes, be fearless and tenacious, for harmony will always defeat strife. Teach this song to each person you can so that they may pass it to others. Take heart, Kingbird for Deyanir will not know this song, nor will he know of my help."_

_The kingbird flew swiftly and his song filled the air. Deyanir listened but didn't understand. His rage grew until the power within him burned darkly. He called forth a black, winged beast that became known as the Great Serpent. Together they descended on the villages of man and animal. Fire issued from the beast's mouth, and Deyanir, his soul tainted by his hatred, spread his corruption to all near him and they died, unable to endure such darkness. _

_But the kingbird's song reached many people and animals, all of whom repeated it until a mighty chorus resounded in the air. Mother Earth's children defied Deyanir and the Great Serpent. Many died in that first battle. Mother Earth, upon seeing the destruction, knew that Deyanir's corruption ran so deep within him that he was no longer even a man. That knowledge freed her from her oath not to intervene for the foul creature was no longer her child. She and Father Sky cast both serpent and rider from the firmament with such force that Deyanir and the Great Serpent fell through the earth to land deep underground. The earth healed itself and gradually man and animal forgot about them. _

_Mother Earth and Father Sky waited and watched for the return of the Great Serpent. The kingbird continued his unique song, and, as the years passed, people forgot they had ever been one with animals, and animals forgot they could shape themselves into men. Soon, all spoke with unique voices and the balance was forever lost. _

_Listen for the song of the kingbird. Know that he sings for Mother Earth, to remind us to be prepared to defend all that we hold dear_. _**A**_ _**Chasind myth as recorded by Sister Alma, Chantry scholar*****_

**~~~oOo~~~**

Standing in the doorway, arms folded, Laria cocked her head, listening to the morning stillness. A thin veil of fog curled along the ground, but the sun was already chasing it away. Only along the silver strand of the river did the mist still cling with stubborn grace, and soon it, too, would be consumed by the sun.

She had expected to find Aerin in Carver's room, where she'd made up the bed with fresh linen. Instead, she'd found the room tidy and the bed made. A slow flush of heat crept along her skin as thoughts of his body pressed against hers filtered in. Stomach fluttering at the recollection, she closed her eyes briefly, wondering why she had allowed her heart to rule her head. He was in an order that represented everything her family feared, and, while she trusted him, she didn't trust the Order.

A bluebird, sitting with great nonchalance on a branch in a nearby tree, began its morning call. "_Cheer, cheer, cheerful charmer_," it teased her, bringing a smile to her face.

"Yes he is, isn't he?" she murmured wryly. But his mask had slipped the previous night, revealing the man she'd come to care for behind it.

Glancing around the yard, she saw that he wasn't in the area and her eyes moved to the river. Tantalizing fingers of mist beckoned her. Barefoot, and still in her nightdress, she allowed herself to be lured to the river's edge. Sitting on a fallen log was a set of men's clothes, neatly folded. Beside them, resting against the log, were boots that had a fine layer of dust on them. A large huckaback linen towel was hanging on a buttonbush, and the temptation to remove clothes and towel, as he had done the morning they first met, was strong. She reached out a hand to snag the towel.

"You don't _really_ think that will cause me any great distress, do you?" a warm, rich voice asked from behind her.

Giving a startled yelp, Laria stepped forward quickly, her hand falling to her side. "You might make a bit more noise," she complained, eyes fastened to the ground, heart thumping in her chest. How had he not splashed when he had come out of the water? For such a tall, well-built man, he moved with the silent grace of a panther.

"The way to befriend a bird is hardly to make a great deal of noise while leaping about," Aerin replied, amusement encasing his words . "Shall I come closer or will that startle you? I wouldn't want to see you fly away quite yet."

The seductive heat in his voice was subtle and distinctive. It shivered along her nerves and she felt a slow heat building in her. Taking a deep breath, she reached for the towel and held it closely to her. "I won't fly away, at least not yet. But I am curious why a wolf doesn't merely shake himself dry?"

Laughter rumbled through the mist as he moved closer and she smiled at the sound. The headiness of a new relationship, of the deepening attraction, raced along her nerves and made her feel young and carefree. It was an illusion, she knew, but it was a very welcome one. In those moments she wasn't the caretaker and protector of her family, nor a woman in the militia, nor a farmer. She was simply a young woman being courted by a handsome man. Her smile widened as she kept her back to him.

"Will you hold my towel indefinitely or will you dry me off?"

Tilting her head to one side, she pondered aloud, "How far is the wolf willing to pursue the holder of the towel?" before dashing away from him, holding the hem of her nightdress up in one hand and his towel in the other.

She heard a great shout of laughter and then his bare feet pounding along the firm soil behind her. He caught her from behind, between the well and the front door, his arms snaking around her waist and pulling her off her feet as he swung her around. The back of her nightdress became soaked and her laughter mingled with his.

"Put me down," she protested breathlessly when her laughter subsided.

He lowered her to the ground, and, her back still to him, she handed him the towel over her shoulder. "As wet as I am, I suppose there's no reason for me to bathe, is there?" she asked wryly, a shiver running through her as the damp material cooled against her skin.

"I can think of several, but I defer to your judgment on the matter, my lady hawk."

Assailed by nerves, which had arrived far later than they should have, she remained with her back to him until he assured her the bath sheet was in place. Self-doubt began to niggle at her and she found herself wondering, yet again, why she had allowed herself to be attracted to him.

Turning, she met his gaze and held it, giving him a smile that trembled at the edges. "We should dress. I'm sure Revered Mother Glynis is wondering where her knight-captain is."

Fingers, cool with a hint of dampness, brushed her curls back from her forehead and moved to cup her cheeks. "Don't retreat, Laria. Please," he said tenderly, his voice low.

She nodded once and then leaned into his touch, before stepping away, her voice brisk. "But we have duties, Aerin, and no matter what else happens, we need to tend to them."

Aerin leaned closer, his lips warm against hers. She returned his kiss and then broke away, listening. "I believe we're about to have company, Ser Bath Sheet. Will you have us greet them so informally?"

"My lady, I bid you a brief farewell," he replied, sprinting towards the riverbank and his clothes.

Chuckling, Laria entered the house and quickly dressed. She was just pulling on her worn, scuffed boots, when the horses arrived in the yard. Ser Moran and Ser Fletcher dismounted, greeting her cheerfully.

"Does Ser Bryant need an escort?" she asked once she'd settled them at the table and set about preparing tea.

"We're to keep a watch on the place while he's in town," Moran explained, reaching into his saddle bag and removing a freshly-baked loaf of bread, wrapped in a clean white cloth. "Compliments of Sister Treva," he added, handing her the loaf of bread and then staring at it with such longing that Laria set about slicing some. She put it, a crock of butter and a pot of jam on the table and began to gather cutlery and dishes.

"Where is Ser Bryant?" Fletcher asked a moment later, his mouth happily full of buttered bread.

"I'm here, Ser Fletcher, and _you_ are early," Aerin said cheerfully, still looking a bit damp in places. Laria turned away to hide her smirk, but not before seeing a flashing grin in her direction.

"Yes, ser, Sister Treva wanted us to bring this to Lady Laria while it was still warm," Fletcher managed to say before taking another bite of his bread.

Shaking his head with an indulgent smile, Aerin asked, "You don't suppose you could slow down long enough to actually let the lady in question have a piece, do you?"

A bright blush settled on the young templar's cheeks and he looked stricken. "I'm sorry, Lady Laria. I didn't have time to break my fast before we left," he said, looking abashed.

"Don't worry, Fletcher. I'm not all that hungry this morning. But I do have some smoked ham if you'd care to try some?"

The young man's face lit up and he nodded quickly, before looking to his superior for permission. Aerin went to the larder to fetch the ham in question, which was still wrapped in muslin. Laria, setting the tea pot on the table, glanced at him, surprised to realize how at home he looked in the Hawke kitchen. More disturbing was how pleased she was to have him there.

After the impromptu breakfast, she followed Aerin outside and helped him saddle his horse. "You know that I'm not in need of constant supervision," she began, trying to instill quiet authority in her voice. Instead, her words came out wrapped in gaily colored paper and tied with a frilly bow. Maker, she was becoming the very type of woman she detested: simpering and giddy.

He glanced across the saddle at her, his eyes serious. "I know you don't need constant supervision," he replied. "But I need someone here for my peace of mind. I won't lose you through my own arrogance and pride," he added firmly, before returning to his task.

"What do you mean? You've alluded to losing someone through your actions or inactions several times now, Aerin. Who? How?"

Sighing, he shook his head. "You have the most aggravating habit of knocking me just enough off balance that I say things I immediately regret."

She stepped carefully around the horse and came to stand beside him, her hand resting lightly on his arm as she spoke. "I'm not sure if that's an insult or a compliment, but I thought we agreed on three points last night. One was to wait until we know each other better before having an intimate relationship, the second was to open up about ourselves to show our trust in the other, and the third was that I am always right."

A bark of laughter was surprised from him at her last claim, and he bent to drop a brief kiss on the tip of her nose. "We'll discuss those rules when I return this evening. While I remember the first two, I have no recollection of the third, and I can't imagine I would ever consent to such a thing. I _believe_ we agreed that our voices would hold equal merit."

"Truly? I've heard that a wolf's hearing is not his keenest sense. Perhaps you misheard?"

A brow raised, he stepped back. "I assure you _all_ my faculties are in fine mettle, Lady Laria."

"Indeed? I suppose I'll have to discover that myself…at some point."

He pulled her close, his hands light as they rested on her waist. His eyes, dark and serious, probed her, looking for something, and she held his gaze steadily. When he was satisfied, he kissed her, one hand winging up her back to rest lightly at the nape of her neck. She moaned as his tongue explored her mouth, feeling a heavy, warm ache inside her.

With a groan of frustration, Aerin stepped back, breaking the kiss. "Be careful, lovely hawk. I am as much man as wolf," he warned softly.

"Yet you are the one who insisted on the first rule," she responded, trying to find her equilibrium once more.

"A fool's notion, that. However, once we've spent more time on the second rule, I suspect that will no longer be an issue."

"Then you'd best go, Ser Bryant Aerin Sinclair."

He gave her a quick, chaste kiss before mounting, and then bent low in the saddle to capture her chin and find her lips once again. "Until this eventide, Mistress Hawke," he said in farewell and she watched him ride out of the yard and disappear over a low rise.

The last of the fog had retreated for the day and she rolled up her sleeves, preparing for her chores. Both Fletcher and Maron had changed into work clothes and came to join her in the yard. She couldn't help but wonder about Carver and how he would view so many templars suddenly in their life. He would, no doubt, be furious with her, but that seemed to be the case no matter what she did or didn't do. She shook her head, smiling at the notion that she actually missed him, as well as Beth and Mother.

The morning passed in a blur as she tended the newly planted seedlings, and saw to the few farm animals they had. Unexpectedly, Fletcher had a natural way with the animals and they responded well to him. He milked an overfull and uncomfortable Jesamee before mucking out Mab's stall. Maron set about working on the farm implements, mending a hoe and then sharpening the scythe's blade before using it on the high grass near the road.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Carver, walking beside the oxcart, wondered how far they'd manage to travel before nightfall. The baleful glare of the sun was daunting, and it was slowly, insidiously sapping his stamina. He glanced up at his mother, sitting quietly and looking as fresh as she had that morning when they had left the Chasind village. Bethany was wilting in the heat, though, and he worried about her.

Their departure that morning had been a series of strictures from the clan's shaman and an elder on where to set up camp on the way back, how to keep Bethany and his mother out of harm's way, what to hunt for their supper that night, should he decide to, and how to hold his bloody weapon, for Maker's sake. He let out a low growl of pent up outrage as he trudged along the dusty road.

"I hope Laria is all right," Bethany commented. Again.

"Of course she's all right. She always manages to come out on top, no matter who she climbs over to get there," Carver remarked and then blinked at his acrimonious tone.

"Carver, I will not have you speak in such an opprobrious manner. Your sister saved your life the night those men attacked, and I will _not_ have you forget that," his mother rebuked, her voice cool and disapproving.

He glanced at her to find her usually serene expression just as disapproving as her tone. He was unused to being chastised by his mother, who was, more often than not, too quick to overlook his faults. "Sorry, Mother. I just meant that she has a knack for landing right side up and I'm sure this is no exception. Her note said that she was well and that she'd discuss the proceedings when we got home. She wouldn't write that if it wasn't true."

He had been resentful ever since they'd been carted off to the Chasind, unreasonably so, and when Bethany had tried to talk to him about it, he had only become more resentful. Maker, he didn't even understand it himself half the time, how was he supposed to explain it to someone else? Especially someone as sweet and naïve as Bethy. He kicked a pebble out of his way, angry again and not sure why. And burning! Sweet Maker's arse, it was hot.

That night they made camp in a small copse of trees. With the sun down, the wind stirred and he sank down on his bedroll gratefully. "I'd forgotten what a pain it is to travel on foot," he groused, taking the tin plate of food his mother offered. Their dinner, prepared by the Chasind, consisted of spicy dried venison, a hearty cheese encased in a hard crust of nuts, and a crispy flatbread. It was filling and delicious, and by the time he'd finished, his anger had abated.

The air became cool and dew-laden as the evening wore on. Carver helped his mother prepare her bed in the back of the oxcart, before gathering stones from the rocky field in order to build a small fire-ring. Next he scouted for wood, without leaving sight of the camp. Once he had the fire going, he sat back, satisfied.

"I wonder if we should avoid Lothering tomorrow. What do you think, Brother?"

What did he think? He thought they should have left for good long before the trouble. They should have left as soon as Father died. There was nothing for them in Lothering except scrabbling for a halfway decent crop year after year. He scrubbed his face, feeling tired and depressed. It didn't matter that he wanted to join the army or even the Grey Wardens, to strike out and make a name for himself instead of constantly trying to live up to his older sister. He was the man of the family, according to his father, and his duty was to ensure their safety, especially if something happened to Laria. Not that it ever would; she lived a charmed life. And how was he supposed to be the man of the family when she was so busy being that and so much more?

"We'll head a bit north and catch the Imperial Highway. Not that it matters, Bethy. They'll know we're home, anyway. Some nattering old fool will spy the cart and let everyone in town know that the Hawkes have slunk back home."

"We aren't slinking, Carver!" Bethy protested indignantly.

Carver glanced at the oxcart where their mother was already snoring gently, exhausted from traveling in the heat. "Hush, you, before you wake Mother. And what would _you _call it?"

"Oh Carver, can't you ever just be happy? What is it that makes you so angry all the time? You didn't used to be this way."

Carver shrugged, staring at the flames dancing in the night breeze. "I didn't used to feel like I didn't matter," he finally admitted quietly, instantly regretting his words as Bethany began to fuss over him, reciting a list of reasons why he mattered. He rolled his eyes and stopped listening, feeling oddly relieved by her platitudes. There were moments where he almost believed her and he felt a smile pulling at his lips.

"Fine, fine, I'm an amazing brother and son," he finally conceded, allowing himself a snort of amusement. She punched his arm and they spent a pleasant evening laughing about some of their childhood escapades. Maker, he missed those days, when she was first showing signs of magical abilities and they would go off and hide in the woods while she demonstrated her talents. They were both still innocent enough to believe magic was an endless source of entertainment. It wasn't until later that he began to feel as though he had no place in the family.

"If you could do anything, be anything, what would it be?" Bethany asked quietly, the laughter leaving her voice.

He shrugged, wondering if he should lie or be honest. Stalling for time, he asked her the same question.

"Normal. I'd just be normal and get married, have a houseful of children, maybe open a small dressmaker's shop," she answered dreamily.

He took her hand in his and squeezed it so tightly she flinched. "You _can_ have those things if you work for them, Bethy. Look at what Father had."

She shook her head. "I'm not as clever or as brave as papa was. I can't have those things because I'm too afraid to have them," she whispered. "I won't ever be normal."

"To the Void with normal, Sister. It's not all that great either," he reassured, squeezing her hand again. "Now, you'd better get some rest. I want to leave as soon as the sun rises."

Carver settled on his bedroll and stared up at the star-studded night, drifting off to sleep moments later.

**~~~oOo~~~**

They stopped their work for a midday meal consisting of more ham, more bread, some farmer's cheese and a small jug of soft cider. The sun blazed in the pale blue sky and waves of heat shimmered in the distance, but autumn was already murmuring on the wind, and in the whisper of wings from geese starting their northward journey in preparation for the coming cold. The oat crop would be ready to harvest just in time for the first snows. If they were lucky they would have enough food and coin to make it through the long winter months.

Near dusk, scrubbed and sitting on a log by the river, Laria watched the sun reluctantly give up its tenuous hold on the day. A kingbird in a nearby willow tree trilled, "_Tea, tea, seep, tea, tea seep. Tea, tea, do not weep_." There was an urgency to its song and Laria shivered slightly as the sun took a final bow before slipping behind the western hills. Only a few wisps of peach and lavender graced the ever deepening gloom.

The kingbird flitted from the branch to the ground, continually singing, and finally landed near her, its song becoming more agitated before it took wing and flew away. With another shiver, Laria stood and made her way quickly up the hillock to the waiting warmth of home.

"Ser Bryant should be here any time," Fletcher commented over his shoulder as he saddled his horse.

"You and Maron head back to town. I'll be fine until Ser Bryant arrives."

"Sure, but we won't be when he passes us on the road," Maron snickered.

Laria laughed as she set about lighting several lanterns. "You make him sound like a tyrant."

"Not a tyrant, just a knight-captain who expects his orders to be obeyed. You'll find out what that's like with your first muster," Fletcher teased and then fell silent. "Maker, I've got a big mouth. I'm sorry, Lady Laria," he finished, contrition in the slump of his shoulders and brightly blooming cheeks.

"It's all right, Ser Fletcher. It's not as if my being conscripted into the militia is some deep, dark secret."

The sound of a horse cantering on packed earth could be heard in the uncomfortable silence that fell. Her heart quickening in anticipation, Laria stood and brushed at the dirt clinging to the folds of her gown. "And here is the knight-captain now," she added, trying without success to stop herself from smiling. Maker, I'm in danger of becoming one of those besotted sops, she chided herself but her smile refused to depart.

Horse and rider entered the yard not ten minutes later and Laria's excitement turned into wariness, as she berated herself for leaving her sword, freshly cleaned and sheathed, hanging on the small weapon rack inside the house. Not that she needed it. Both Maron and Fletcher had weapons drawn before the mysterious rider had a chance to speak.

Laria moved forward to stand beside Maron, studying the stranger with wary eyes. He was as dark-skinned as Aerin, his hair a deeper black. His beard was trim and he was dressed in ornate silverite plate and doeskin. There was something exotic and foreign about him as he sat astride a black courser that made her uncomfortable. She felt a twist of foreboding in her stomach, twining together with her fear.

"Greetings," he said calmly, adding a smile. "I mean no harm. I've come to speak with Malcolm Hawke."

"Master Hawke died nearly a year ago, so be off," Maron said, the menace in his voice taking Laria by surprise.

The stranger's expression darkened in surprise and it took him a moment to speak. When he finally found his voice, his tone was sincere. "My condolences. Might you be his wife?" the man asked, his gaze still on Laria.

Fletcher laughed. "Don't be daft. She's his daughter. You can't have ever met the man or you'd know she's the image of him."

"I stand corrected. If I might be allowed to dismount, perhaps we can talk in private?"

"You'll not dismount until we know who you are," Maron interjected firmly.

"I am Duncan, Commander of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden."

_**A/N**: ***** **This lore came mostly from my own imagination. Some aspects are based loosely on Native American myths._  
><em>Deyanir is of Greek origin and means: Capable of great destruction.<em>  
><em>A bluebird represents happiness, fulfillment, and hope. Some ancient cultures associated it with war, others with victory after a hard-fought battle.<em>  
><em>A kingbird represents aggressive defense of home and family, a fearless nature, and it's seen as a messenger from the gods warning of an impending disaster or war.<em>


	9. The Keeper of Secrets

**A/N: **_Thank you, Lisa, for straightening out several kinks in this chapter. You are the wunderkind of betas!_

**The Keeper of Secrets**

_Long ago, before the time of the Long Drift, a young woman grew to covet her father's standing as the clan chieftain. Each night, as her father lay sleeping, she stared at the stars, contemplating the perfect plan to usurp her father's place. She plotted and schemed, never speaking of it to a soul, for she trusted none but her brother, who had left the clan to live his own life. _

_And then it came to her, the perfect plan she had sought. Weary from the long night, but triumphant, she sat by the golden waters, staring at the awakening sun. A fox with inquisitive eyes and a sly smile appeared, coming to stand beside her. She was not afraid, for she spoke the language of the fox and she greeted him._

"_I am Deloris, Fox. You are welcome to sit with me."_

_The fox stretched and curled up beside her, continuing to smile. "You have a secret," Fox said. "Tell me what it is and I will keep it to myself."_

_The young woman looked about, ensuring they were alone, and then smiled as she whispered her plan. Her new friend continued to smile as he thanked her before bounding into the woods. Exhausted, Deloris fell asleep. When she awoke, the sun had retired, leaving a dark, moonless night in its wake. _

_She crept toward her father's tent, intent on carrying out her plan, but when she entered the tent, she found her father sitting in wait. "I am disappointed," he said, his voice heavy with sorrow. "You were tricked by a fox and told him your secrets, foolish child." With that, he became the fox, staring at her with a sly smile. _

_She was taken to a small hut and locked inside. Each day someone brought food to her and each day she stared out of the small window, thinking of a way she might escape to once again try and usurp her father. After many days, she seized upon a plan and shouted her happiness, the sound floating on the breeze. _

"_What a lovely day, don't you agree?" asked a chickadee from his perch in a nearby tree._

"_Why yes, Chickadee, it is a beautiful day."_

"_You are very cheerful. May I know why?" chirped the bird, black cap glinting in the sun._

_The woman looked out the window to make sure no fox was nearby before she whispered her plan to the bird. The chickadee began to chirp loudly and incessantly, until the clan gathered around. The chickadee shifted and became her father._

"_I cannot kill my own blood and flesh, but you are cast out of our clan," her father said with great sadness. "We will leave in the morning, but you will not come."_

"_No, father, I will die here if you leave me," she whispered in anguish._

"_Perhaps if you talk to the animals they will help, but I will not," he replied and walked away._

_They brought her out in the morning sun and walked her into the forest, before tying her to a tree. Wordlessly they walked away. Deloris wept bitterly, crying out for help. For three days and three nights she pleaded for someone to come and hear her story that they might help._

_On the morning of the fourth day, a beautiful, gaily painted butterfly landed on her shoulder, fluttering its wings. "If I tell you my secret, will you help?" Deloris begged. The butterfly swept its wings up and down, silently agreeing._

"_Go into the deepest part of the forest and tell my brother that I need his help. He knows what I have done and why. He lives in the house near the swamp. Tell him my secret," she urged._

_The butterfly rose and floated off, bright wings dazzling in the sun. Deloris waited and waited, becoming weaker each day until, at last, she was no more. The butterfly returned, and with her came Mother Earth. _

"_Ah, child, you forgot all the lessons you were taught as the clan shaman," Mother Earth said quietly, lowering the young woman to the ground. The butterfly sat on Mother Earth's outstretched finger. _

"_Let go of dark thoughts and secrets, for keeping such things cannot end well. Be cautious who you confide in. _

"_A fox is sly and cunning; never meant to keep a secret. He will tell all he knows to any who will reward him for it. It is his nature, and he can no more stop it than the moon can stop the sun from rising. _

"_A chickadee will not be able to keep secrets for it is imbued with honesty. We praise the chickadee as the bringer of truth. If you want to keep your secret safe, never whisper it to the chickadee._

"_If you wish a secret to be kept safe, capture a butterfly and whisper your secret to it. A butterfly cannot speak and your secret is safe. Release the butterfly and it will carry your secrets to Mother Earth and Father Sky, for only they can know the thoughts of butterflies." __**Cautionary Tales of the Chasind as written by Cyfarwydd, shaman of the Chasiver Clan.**_

**~~~oOo~~~**

"Ser Bryant…Aerin," the revered mother began, softening her voice as she studied him. She paused, clasping her hands and intoning a whispered prayer before continuing. "This is not a step to be undertaken lightly. A request of this type must go first to the Grand Cleric and her Knight-Commander, and, should they approve, the request is forwarded to the Office of the Divine, as well as the Knight-Divine and the Knight Vigilant. It can take a year or more to be decided. Are you prepared to wait that long?"

Aerin paced the room, hands clasped behind his back. He would wait until the return of the Maker if it meant he could marry Laria at some point. He smiled confidently, if a bit impatiently. He had wanted to leave earlier and another delay frustrated him further. With an effort, he stilled his impatience before speaking.

"I'm sure, Your Reverence. I'm not altogether sure she'll have me, but _if_ this relationship continues, and _if _she'll have me, I will marry her."

"Her sister is an apostate, lest you have forgotten. At the moment we can protect her, but that might not always be the case. Sending a request for marriage to the Divine may very well bring unwanted scrutiny to the family. They will want to make sure that Laria is a woman of independent means."

Aerin frowned. "I will include financials," he said firmly.

"And which will you choose should it come down to a matter of your faith or the Hawkes?"

He continued pacing, his smile coming easily to his lips. "My faith will remain as it always has, regardless of what choices I may have to make in the future," he replied with deep conviction.

"And if the Order demands you bring Bethany Hawke to the Circle of Magi?"

He stopped his pacing, turning to face the revered mother whose lined face wore only concern, not condemnation. "Then I will leave the Order," he responded simply. "It is not by the Maker's mandate that mages are locked away, Your Reverence."

"Many would consider that a heretical statement, Aerin; be careful where you say it," the older woman chastised, her mouth a grim straight line. "Would you _wish_ to leave the Order should that occur?"

"No, but I would do so without hesitation. What you have built here is unique and I would hope it spreads to other parts of Ferelden and beyond, eventually. I joined the Order to effect just this type of change. If I can't do that from within, I will find another way."

"I see. And will you leave the Order if you don't receive the approval of the Divine to marry Laria Hawke?"

That was a much more difficult question to answer, and a decision that would only be made if Laria agreed to marry him. As he had yet to broach the subject, and felt confident that it was much too early to do so, he gave a slight twist of his shoulders, settling his armor and a smile into place. "I won't second guess what the Divine will or won't do, Revered Mother Glynis."

"Ah, and yet you have determined that you'll leave should you be required to follow the dictates of your Order regarding young Bethany," she commented with a quiet sadness in her voice. "This experiment of ours must be nurtured and allowed to grow slowly and in secret, Aerin. The circles have been around for nearly a thousand years; they won't be quick to disappear. You leaving the Order will slow down any progress we hope to make. I would not wish for that to happen; there are few enough of us as it is and it is a dangerous path we walk, risking so much to bring an end to the oppression of the mages without declaring war on the chantry."

He resumed his pacing, anxious to leave the philosophical discussion for a later time. "Change can occur from without or within, and will need support of both those in the Order, and ordinary citizens if it's to succeed. My dedication to changing the Order and its principles hasn't wavered simply because I've fallen in love with someone. My commitment to change is as strong as ever, perhaps more so, having seen what the Hawkes have gone through."

He turned to face the revered mother, smiling wryly. "When I came here it was to learn about your charter, to discover how I could help. I'd heard whispers of it in Denerim and thought to assist in shaping a new course for our Order and for the mages. I certainly didn't expect to fall in love in the process."

Her face softened and a compassionate smile formed on her lips. "I don't doubt that, and your ideas and thoughts are helping to forge the new compact we're crafting, but it will be years before we can even hope to present it before the Divine and the Knight Vigilant. And many more years, should the Maker will it, for the changes to take place."

She stood and intoned a soft blessing on the man before her. "I won't keep you any longer. I ask only that you be careful, Aerin, and that you guard yourself against gossip. Far more damage is done by a wagging tongue than a sword."

Aerin bowed and accepted the benediction before striding out of the chancel and into a young woman, nearly knocking her off her feet. He instinctively held out his hands to steady her and murmured, "Pardon me, Sister Leliana, I didn't see you there. Did I hurt you?"

"No, no, Ser Bryant, I'm fine," the lay sister claimed in dulcet tones, allowing herself to be steadied before ducking her head and moving away, her red hair gleaming brightly in the long shaft of sunlight streaming through the window.

Without another thought, he strode to his waiting horse. Aeolis, stamping impatiently, tossed his head and neighed as Aerin mounted. "I agree, so make haste," he laughed, patting the side of Aeolis's neck.

It was only later that he wondered briefly what their newest lay sister had been doing near the chancel during evening devotionals, but he turned his mind to other things, enjoying the crisp, clean air and the setting sun.

He was too old to feel the flutter in his stomach as his thoughts turned to Laria. Too old and too practiced at keeping his heart to himself, yet, as he rode to the Hawke farm, he found his stomach was inclined to dip and his heart to thump loudly in his chest. The stress of his day and his talk with the revered mother fell away as Aeolis galloped along the road.

Daylight was giving up its fierce hold, overcome by the encroaching night. The wind had stilled, as if holding its breath for the sun to depart, taking the sweet scent of wildflowers with it. Shadowy fingers stretched languorously in the dying light, dark ribbons along the road slowly lengthening. A deep crimson sun slid effortlessly below the horizon as dusk gathered its cloak across the sky.

Aerin slowed his horse to a walk as horse and rider adjusted to the diminishing light. Across the field he could see the flickering light of lanterns, a welcoming golden glow in the darkness. He felt as though he was coming home.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"Bollocks! I knew we shouldn't have stopped at the Blake Farm," Carver grumbled, peering into the growing gloom.

"Carver Hawke, I will not have a child of mine speaking in such a vulgar manner!" his mother admonished. He felt the dull heat of a flush creeping up from his chest to splash across his cheeks at her reprimand.

Without apologizing, he replied, "It'll be dark long before we get home now."

"Then it will be dark. That hardly calls for your language or your attitude, young man."

"Have it your way," he said ungraciously and strode ahead of the cart, furious.

His anger mounted as he drew closer to home and he found his footsteps slowing again until he was once more walking beside the family ox, Mett. He'd known Laria would land on her bloody feet. Didn't she always? He slapped the guiding tether against his leg, wincing at the bite of the leather strap.

Damn Haggar Blake for gossiping like a magpie. Carver felt that heavy press of anger and shame push into his chest as he thought about what he'd heard from Blake. Maybe if he'd heard it from Laria, seen her expression, he wouldn't be so mad at her. He let out a low growl of anger. The militia? She was going to get to serve in the militia? As a punishment? More like a reward. He snorted derisively. How fair was that? Hadn't he wanted to join since he'd been a little boy? And she, no doubt, didn't want to, probably thought she was too good for it.

Of course his mother was upset by the news, and the minute she was seated in the oxcart again, she bemoaned Laria's fate. "Who'll take care of us should the worse come to pass?" she asked with a fretful note that made Carver feel even angrier because it felt like a knife stabbing into his gut.

"Me!" he'd shouted, stunned that she so easily overlooked the obvious. Maker, would he always be consigned to the shadows? His hands curled into fists and the hurt fueled his anger.

As he walked along the rutted road trying to let go of the blinding rage, and ignore the pain that fed it, he tried to come up with a way to show them, to prove to himself, that he was just as important to the family as Laria was. His thoughts twisted and turned as he worked out the puzzle, until he finally came up with an idea. It was bloody genius. _He_ was a bloody genius. The plan would alleviate his mother's concern and give him his heart's desire, and if it also gave Laria what she wanted, so what? It was the perfect solution for everyone. A thin smile settled on his lips as he considered the plan from several angles, feeling both triumphant and excited. The pain receded, taking the anger with it.

If Laria didn't want her punishment, _he'd_ take it. He'd talk to Grant, demand to take his sister's place and join the militia. Now that he was sixteen, he was of age and the only thing that had stopped him before was the promise Bethany had extracted from him in a fit of guilt. It was plain to him that both his mother and his twin would be happier if Laria stayed at home and he joined the militia.

Five years in the militia would give him the experience needed to join the Ferelden army as a sergeant if he was lucky. His chest puffed out and his shoulders straightened. This was the chance to help his family, as well as himself. He felt a stirring of pride. He'd go to Lothering first thing in the morning and talk to the constable. In secret, so he wouldn't have to face all the women ganging up on him to shame him into staying or tell him why he wasn't good enough to join the army. Yes, by the Maker, that's what he'd do.

As the welcoming glow of their farm came into view, his mood was lighter. The farm was less than a mile away and he was ready to be there. He'd have to rise early to set out before the others were awake.

Bethany hopped down from the cart to walk beside him, her hand tucked into the crook of his arm, humming softly. "Mother didn't mean anything by it, Brother," she said quietly, her voice sweet and conciliatory. If his mother hadn't meant it, why did Bethany feel badly for him? Of course she'd meant it.

"It doesn't matter," he muttered, looking out at the night, watching the stars winking into view.

"Oh no, Carver, you have that look about you," she continued, giving him a side-long glance.

"What look?" he demanded, avoiding her gaze in favor of counting the stars.

"That one that says you're very pleased with yourself."

He was tempted, for all of a second, to confess his plan to her but she was unable to keep a secret. Her overwhelming need to be honest with everyone always overrode her desire to keep a secret and if he gave even a hint of his plans, she would sing it from the treetops, as she had always done, not with malice, but because she couldn't help herself. No, he couldn't tell her, and he swallowed his words before they could form.

"Just happy to be going home," he lied without looking at her.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"How did you know my father?" Laria asked, her voice carrying a hint of suspicion as she invited the warden commander into the house.

"A very long and not particularly interesting story, I'm afraid," the man replied, avoiding her gaze by glancing around the room she ushered him into.

After introductions were made, Maron and Fletcher took up a protective post near the door, intently watching the proceedings, and it was all Laria could do not to pat Fletcher's head and tell him to ask the questions that were obviously demanding to be voiced by the look on his face. But before she could say anything, Warden Commander Duncan spoke.

"I hope you will pardon me if this causes you pain, Lady Laria, but how did your father die? I met him only once but he seemed a healthy man."

"A wasting disease," she replied quietly.

"Ah, that is distressing news. While we only met once, we corresponded regularly. He gave no indication he was ill. I trust he didn't suffer overlong?"

Laria frowned. "Why would he correspond with a Grey Warden?" she asked, her curiosity growing. She fixed her gaze on the man before her, searching for answers and finding none.

"That, too, is a long story, but he kept a watch on this area for us, reporting any suspected darkspawn attacks."

Laria's mind tumbled over itself as she tried to understand why her father would help the Grey Wardens. From all the legends and fables she'd ever heard about the Wardens, none had come from her father. He'd been, in fact, rather disdainful of them the only time she had brought them up.

"That's surprising, given his dislike of your organization," she remarked bluntly, after a moment's silence. She was faintly aware of Fletcher's indrawn breath and realized she'd been ruder than necessary to the man standing before her so civilly.

"His reasons for that dislike were not without cause," Duncan admitted in the same quiet manner he'd maintained even in the face of her discourtesy.

"Please, sit down, Commander, I didn't mean to be impolite."

He gave her a half smile, nearly hidden by his beard and mustache. There was something secretive about him, nothing overt and certainly not furtive, but rather as if he held a wealth of secrets within him that he zealously guarded and that weighed heavily upon him. She felt a moment's sympathy for him, gone quickly at the sound of a horse arriving outside.

Duncan's hand moved with swift assurance to the hilt of his dagger but she flashed him a reassuring smile. "Merely a friend come to dine," she explained.

"Ah. In that case, I'll take my leave. I need to return to camp. My men will be awaiting my return. However, before I go, I had expected a report from your father months ago. Is it possible it might be among his personal effects?"

Laria frowned as she mentally went through her father's few possessions. She couldn't remember anything looking even remotely like a message among his books and journal, which had been placed in a small casket that her mother kept, filled with mementos and bits of her history. Laria had thumbed through it but it had been so personal she had refused to read it in detail.

"No, there was nothing like that," she replied with conviction. A look of disappointment, there and gone in less than a blink, flitted across the man's face. She was about to remark on it when the sound of Aerin's voice stopped her.

The door burst open and he swept into the room, his smile resting on his lips with great delight. Her own smile grew and she took a step toward him, her heart beating rapidly and so loudly she was sure everyone in the crowded room could hear it.

"My lady hawk," he greeted, his voice as warm as a caress. He began moving to her side, only to halt when he spied the Commander of the Grey. His eyes narrowed. "Warden Commander Duncan, what are you doing here?" he demanded in a cool voice.

Laria blinked, startled. "You know the Commander of the Grey?" she asked, feeling off-center and somewhat breathless by the situation. Her curiosity deepened as the two men eyed each other.

"I do," he confirmed, coming to put an arm around her waist. She felt a flash of irritation at his sudden possessiveness, but with it came a deep swell of affection.

Duncan bowed slightly. "There is no need to worry, Knight Captain, I am not here to conscript or recruit," he said dryly, a smile whisking across his features before it disappeared. Laria felt the tension leave Aerin and he stepped forward to greet Duncan with a quick clasp of hands, his manner friendly and relaxed.

Growing more confused by the moment, Laria asked, "How do you two know each other?"

"Duncan conscripted a criminal and an apostate out from under me when I served in Denerim."

There was a wry note in his voice as he spoke and his smile broadened. "The Grand Cleric gave me quite a lecture about the entire episode."

"Sorry, friend, but they have both proven to be of great value to the Wardens," Duncan replied, looking far from sorry. "I felt compelled to take Ser Bryant out for drinks after the incident," he explained, his eyes once more on her.

Laria stared in surprise. If ever a man looked less likely to go out drinking with anyone, it was Warden Commander Duncan, but he seemed more at ease and his smile more genuine. She had trouble envisioning the two men going out drinking together, but she would accept that it happened.

"I suggest you and Fletcher leave or you'll lose any hope of eating tonight," Aerin said, turning his attention to his subordinates. Maron nodded and moved to the door.

"But…can't we stay and talk to Ser Duncan?" Fletcher asked, eyeing the man in question with an almost childlike adoration. Laria clasped her hands tightly together so that she wouldn't reach across the space and ruffle his hair.

"I must go, I'm afraid," the commander said with a look that spelled relief.

"If you are ever in the area again, you are welcome here," Laria said quietly, determined to discover just what the nature of her father's relationship was with the Grey Wardens. Duncan appeared to be a man filled with secrets; she could tell from the very careful way in which he chose his words.

A flurry of activity as good-byes were exchanged gave way to a kiss the minute the door shut on the others.

"You smell good enough to eat," Aerin murmured, his breath stirring the tendrils of hair that clung to her forehead, still damp from her quick bath.

"So, you don't want any of the beef pasties I prepared?" she teased, grinning at him. "How fortuitous because I'm hungry enough to eat them all."

He pulled her closer, leaving her breathless. "Later," he whispered, his lips seeking hers again and she was happy to oblige, her fingers winging up his back to thread through his hair as she pulled him closer.

Her heart whispered of her deepening love for him as it fluttered inside her, tickling like the wings of a butterfly, but she was not yet ready to share that secret. Instead she sat across the table from him as they shared their day with each other, frequently interrupted by a kiss or a touch and punctuated by laughter.

After dinner, as they were clearing the table, Aerin caught her up, spinning her around until she was dizzy and laughing, before he peppered her face with kisses. Wrapping her arms around his waist ,she pressed herself against him, realizing that she had never been so happy and a shiver raced down her spine.

"What is it, Laria?" Aerin asked her, stepping back to examine her face.

She lowered her eyes, trying to catch her breath and settle her thoughts. A sudden fear settled in her, dark and heavy, a feeling of events spinning out of control. She took a step away and turned, staring at the sewing basket by the overstuffed chair, the pile of books that Bethany had borrowed from the chantry sitting on a table in a pool of light cast by a low burning candle, Carver's fishing pole leaning in a corner, gathering dust beside hers.

How long had it been since she and Carver had gone off to their secret fishing spot and spent a lazy afternoon dozing and fishing? How long since she and Bethany had read aloud to each other, imagining themselves stepping into the world created by the author? How long since she had watched her mother's head bent over her sewing, her grey hair caught silver in the light?

"My lady hawk, what is it?" Aerin asked quietly and she heard the note of concern in his voice.

She needed to end this madness before it went any further. She would hurt him, she would be hurt. She had neglected her family, mooning over a templar. The irony caught at her throat, burning it with tears and bitter laughter, her thoughts tumbling chaotically.

How could she tell him she wasn't sure she was strong enough to fight for their relationship? How could she tell him that she felt guilty for even wanting the kind of happiness that he offered? That it went against everything she had ever been taught about defending her family?

"Please, Laria, tell me," he urged.

"I –" she began, staring at her hands as misery swelled in her throat, threatening to strangle her.

"We can do this, my love," he whispered, brushing his fingers along her cheekbones. "We can do this together."

She wanted to believe him, his voice held such conviction, but the truth was there, floating above the desire. She was the head of her family, the one entrusted to care for all of them, a job that took every spare moment of her time, every ounce of her energy. Her heart twisted in her chest, as heavy as a stone.

"I will fight for you, Laria. I will fight until my last breath, even if it is you I have to fight," Aerin vowed, his voice fierce in its certainty.

Her family would always come first. It was a promise, a commitment, a duty that influenced every decision she'd ever made and to start making choices strictly for her own happiness felt suddenly wrong.

She wanted to believe him, wanted to celebrate, to recapture the feeling from earlier, when her heart had danced joyously within her, to tell him that she was his, body and soul, and that nothing would ever come between them.

She wanted to, but she remained still, unable to give voice to what she feared might be a lie.

**A/N:** _The animal spirit of the chickadee represents truth and honesty. A number of Native American tribes consider it to be the herald of truth with a spirit so pure it couldn't tell a lie or keep a secret.  
>In certain Native American lore, the butterfly is considered the Keeper of Secrets. They believe that if you have a secret you don't want anyone else to know you should catch a butterfly and whisper your secret to it. Since they can't speak, the secret is safe in their keeping as only the Great Spirit can read the thoughts of butterflies.<br>The cautionary tale is a combination of my imagination, Native American lore and shamanism. _  
><em>Cyfarwydd is Welsh and means storyteller.<br>Deloris is of Latin origin and means bitter sorrow._


	10. Gifts

**A/N: **_Thank you, Enaid, for your brilliance, and for walking around in my head.  
>Thank you, Lisa, for your insightful comments and awesome beta skills.<em>

**Gifts**

_During the time of the war with the Great Serpent, Matthal, a modest young man possessed of a kind heart, wished to give to his tribe in return for all he had been given. He approached the chieftain and asked what the tribe most needed. _

_The chieftain, Cadfael, bowed his head gravely. "Much have we lost in this war with the Great Serpent, and what we need most is not something that can be given. We need courage and strength to continue this fight; we need to remember what hope feels like."_

_Giving the words much thought, Matthal went in search of that which the tribe most needed. He wandered far from home, but everywhere he went, he saw only chaos and war, destruction and death. Always, he felt compelled to assist others, even as he searched for gifts that would aid his tribe. _

_One day he found himself in a small village. A lone man stood fighting the armies of the Great Serpent; a lone man who would not give up. It was the bravest sight Matthal had ever witnessed. He came to fight beside the man and together they defeated the last of the dark sons of the Great Serpent. _

_After the battle, he turned to the man and bowed in homage of such bravery. "I am Matthal of the Quennel tribe. I am honored to be in the presence of such heroism."_

"_I am Gyfuhart, last of my clan. Have you need of my sword?"_

"_It will be my privilege to have your company as I journey."_

_Matthal explained the nature of his quest and Gyfuhart vowed to help in any way he could. Days passed as they continued to travel the ravaged lands. Matthal began to despair of finding a gift for his tribe. He decided he must return to the tribe without a gift, for he had been gone far too long and he missed his clan greatly. _

_As they traveled towards his home, they came upon a number of the dark sons of the Great Serpent and he was struck down, a grievous wound to his leg. A man came upon them as they fought and he assisted them. When the last of the dark beasts had fallen, the man carefully tended Matthal's wound and then hoisted him on his back. _

"_Tell me where you live, young man, and I will deliver you safely," the stranger announced._

"_I am Matthal of the Quennel tribe and I thank you for your assistance."_

"_I am Gebberd, from the North Wood tribes."_

_Matthal had never seen such strength in a man. Without effort, Gebberd carried him many miles each day as his wound slowly healed. The three men formed a deep friendship on their trek, a friendship that bound them in ways even they did not fully understand._

_Upon their return, Matthal sought out Cadfael and bowed low in his imagined disgrace. "Most venerated father, I have found no gift worthy of the tribe."_

_Cadfael looked at the two men flanking his son. "You are wrong, my child, for your gifts are rare and speak from a true heart. You have brought the gifts of courage and strength, and with them, travels hope."_ _**A Chasind tale by**_ _**Travis Kenji, Chieftain of the Quennel tribes and Grey Warden, as told to Leonie Caron Mac Tir on the birth of Gareth and Beryl Mac Tir*****_

**~~~oOo~~~**

"You'll have to talk to me sooner or later," Aerin stated quietly, stepping closer to her. "Tell me what you are afraid of, my lady hawk, and we'll face that fear together."

Oh Maker, she wanted to. She wanted to turn and throw herself into his arms and let her love for him pour out in a torrent of words and touches. She wanted to believe that somehow they could strike a balance between duty and love. That the moments of joy she discovered with him would not be the last, merely a beginning. Her thoughts tumbled, warring with her heart, wanting nothing more than to love him without fear.

She turned, swiping surreptitiously at a few errant tears, surprised by their presence. Searching for words to explain, she opened her mouth and closed it again, shaking her head, unable to trust her voice.

Aerin took a step closer, still not touching her, but she could feel his warmth seeping into her. She forced herself to meet his eyes and she was profoundly moved by the emotion in them. Gone was the teasing glint, replaced by a raw need that made her stomach dip. The usual amusement that rode so easily in his expression was gone, stripped away, and she saw the depth of his feelings for her.

Laria's heart felt as though it was pulling in one direction, her head in another. She forced herself to look away from him, to try and gather her scattered thoughts as she sought a path through her confusion. And then her father's voice came to her, his words a gentle reminder and chastisement:

_The other is to open your heart to the possibilities of love, Daughter. The Maker has given the heart such capacity to love, and I won't have you deny yourself that joy out of fear or a sense of duty._

She had promised him that she would try, and she attempted to make herself believe that she had done so. She shivered and closed her eyes. She had tried right up until the emotions had become too frightening and then she had hurried back to the safety found in performing her familial duty, hiding behind her family to avoid facing how daunting the prospect of loving someone was. In those moments she knew if she allowed herself to open completely to Aerin she would find the kind of love her father had found with her mother, and that truth was not liberating, it was paralyzing.

_Don't forget to laugh, don't forget to play, and, most importantly, don't discount love_.

Another tender admonition from her father, written in his last letter to her, intruded into her chaotic emotions. He had obviously foreseen the very dilemma that she now faced. Had he faced it when he had fallen in love with her mother? Laria started to turn away, to look at anything other than Aerin, but found herself caught, pinned by the honest, passionate intensity of his gaze.

Her father's words repeated in her head, whispered through her blood to her heart. His words, the gift of his loving wisdom even after his death, gave her an answer and she felt herself smiling, even through her stubborn tears. "You're right. I'm afraid," she began, her voice catching as she reached out a trembling hand, allowing shaking fingers to brush lightly across Aerin's cheek. She drew courage from his unflinching belief in her.

"I'm afraid," she repeated, her voice gaining strength, "And I'll need you to remind me that duty doesn't have to turn me into a martyr."

His eyes closed, dark lashes sweeping down to hide his expression, but she heard the ragged sigh that escaped from him and her heart ached at the sound. "I'm not as brave as you are, as Father was. I'm not as strong. I don't know how to love someone that way," she added, but the words held less fear in them then they had when she'd first thought them, felt them.

He drew her gently into his arms and she leaned against him, willing herself to relax her tense muscles. His lips traced a line from her neck, up to her jaw and across to her lips and she forgot how to breathe as his lips moved against hers, their pressure growing as the kiss deepened.

Finally, he pulled back and studied her. A slow, teasing smile crept with catlike grace to rest on his lips. "My lady hawk, I will happily spend each moment of every day convincing you that you are brave, strong and loving, especially when you look at me in such a manner."

"Yes, I should imagine _you'll_ enjoy the lessons far more than I," she answered in kind, emboldened by the devotion she saw in his gaze.

His laughter warmed her. "You see right through me, do you?"

"Not entirely, Ser Wolf, merely in some matters."

"So you would not oppose my spending the rest of my days in this endeavor?" he asked with an irrepressible smile.

Laria's heart and stomach lurched in an unholy union at the implication, but before she could respond, the air erupted with the sounds of her returning family, including Bethany's sweet voice calling out, "Lark! Lark, where are you?"

Hearing a chuckle of amusement from Aerin, she tossed a glare at him as she made her way to the door. "Do not even think about it," she warned sternly.

"Never," he promised with another chuckle.

Anything else he might have said was lost in a flurry of hugs, kisses and warm banter as the Hawkes reunited. Laria's relief at the interruption was nearly as great as her delight in having her family home again.

Even Carver condescended to a quick, fierce hug and went so far as to allowed her to kiss his scruffy cheek. She was surprised by the rasp as she rested her cheek briefly against his, before stepping back to greet her mother. When had Carver's beard gone from downy pretense to thick, dark shadow? How had she missed that event? What else had she failed to notice? A moment's panic assailed her. How would she ever manage to be the caretaker of her family and still have time for her relationship with Aerin?

Her father's words once again came to her and she took several steadying breaths as she glanced across at Aerin, who was talking quietly with her mother. She felt herself smile, a bright joy coming to push the fear aside, at least temporarily. She would find the strength and courage to fight for him, even if it was her own conscience that she fought. And he would be right there beside her to help her in that fight, she thought with another flashing smile.

A short time later, gathered around the table drinking tea and eating the last of the pasties, Laria listened to the hum of voices, drowsy and content, her hand resting lightly on Aerin's thigh, his hand curled around hers. This, she thought, was what hope felt like.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Dawn was still an hour away when Carver eased himself out of the house. He didn't dare try and saddle Mab, not that she would allow him to ride her even if he had. She had an implacable dislike of anyone on her back other than Laria.

He held his breath as he moved past Reginald, settled in his customary roost near the chicken coop. The last thing he needed was for the rooster to crow and wake everyone. He didn't let his breath out until he had hopped the fence and started down the rutted lane to Lothering. Maker, he hoped Laria wouldn't come riding to his rescue; the entire town would laugh at him. If he hurried, and if Constable Grant was obliging, he'd have done the deed before she was even aware he was missing.

He'd thought about leaving a note. He wasn't such an arse that he wanted to worry her, but he'd decided against it. Bethany knew something was on his mind, but not what and he'd been careful not to mention the sentence that Grant had imposed on Laria. Not that he'd had to be all that careful; she'd spent most of the time gazing at Ser Bryant, a seeming stranger to Carver, with her soft expression and ready smile. And he didn't care how many times Bryant Sinclair told him that he was Aerin to his friends, he wasn't going to get chummy with a templar. No, he hadn't planned to take her place in the militia for the sake of their love, he'd done it because it was his duty to protect the family every bit as much as it was hers.

By the time he'd made it to the outskirts of Lothering, the sun was heralding a new day and the cocks were crowing. Without a break in his stride, he passed the chantry, briskly climbing the slight hummock to the constable's home.

The door swung open on the second knock, the constable still struggling with the laces of his shirt. "What's amiss, young Hawke? Trouble at the farm again?"

_Young_ Hawke? Would he ever _not_ be young Hawke? When he'd been younger, before his growth spurt, he'd been known as little Hawke and he'd hated it, hated the constant reminder that he couldn't quite measure up to his sister. Ever. Being called young didn't hold quite the sting but it infuriated him just the same.

He growled, "I'm here to talk about my sister's sentence."

Grant motioned to him to enter, and Carver followed him into a cramped kitchen where a tea kettle was quickly set to heat on the brazier. "There's no need to come flying in here all bent out of shape, Carver. Your sister may have taken the men's lives in self-defense, but she needs to recompense the families, according to the King's own laws. She couldn't afford to pay, so unless you've come in to a fair bit of money, there's naught else to do."

"Bloody oath! Those men tried to kill us all, tried to burn us out! During a blasted drought!" Carver wasn't sure where his fury had come from, but it boiled up and spilled over in angry words as he pounded the rickety little table they were seated at. "Any other country in Thedas would thank her and pin a medal on her, not force her into the militia!" he continued, faintly surprised to be defending his sister to _anyone_.

"You think I don't know that? I didn't get this job by being ignorant, nor blind. But the law is the law and if I make an exception for one, I'm honor bound to do the same for others."

Carver focused, trying to recall how calmly his father had spoken when angry, how logical he became. He leaned forward and spoke softly. "She's the head of the family with Father gone, Constable Grant. What if, Maker forbid, a war comes to Ferelden and she's called to muster? Mother relies on her and she's lost so much, I don't want her to lose my sister, as well. I can take her place and –"

"What? Are you daft? Your sister will have my head on a pike by nightfall if I allow that, Carver Hawke!"

"No, she won't," Carver promised. "I know her; she might be mad for a bit but she'll calm down and see it makes the most sense. I want to do this," Carver reiterated. "I'm old enough and I know the law, I can take her place. The law doesn't care who fulfills the judgment as long as a member of the family pays the debt."

"Why are you really doing this, Carver?"

The question, asked with a quiet intensity, caught Carver by surprise. Why _was_ he doing it? The truth skittered away from him, but he knew it was there, unspoken. He looked at the constable, who was waiting and watching, his dark eyes piercing through the veil of lies to stare at Carver's truth.

"What does it matter why I'm doing it? Maker, just accept me in her place!"

"You feel guilty that it wasn't you that killed those men," Grant stated with conviction.

Carver leapt out of his chair, tipping it over in the process. "Just bloody do it, and let me worry about my reasons," he snarled.

"Not until I talk to your sister,"

It was all falling apart. Maker, he'd been a fool to think this would be any different than anything else he'd ever tried to do. Carver stood straight, hands clenched at his sides. "Just let me do this one thing for her, Ser Grant," he pleaded quietly. Maker, he just needed to do something right, to feel like it was right. Just for bloody once.

"You'll need to bring Laria's paperwork back so I can annotate the change. She'll have the mustering schedule as well."

Carver's heart took a dip. He'd planned on telling her after he'd taken her place. He was not about to ask her for bloody permission. There was no chance of her agreeing beforehand. "Just write up a new order and I'll make sure you get the old order back."

"Simmer down, Carver and sit down while you're doing it. Give me a minute to think this through."

Hope skipped across his chest as he sat down, waiting as patiently as he could for Grant to think it through. From the moment he'd first thought of the plan it had continued to grow in importance until its success was as vital to him as the air he breathed. It was difficult not to pound on the table and yell for the man to hurry up and decide something.

He gulped his tea, scalding his tongue, mouth and throat in the process, causing his eyes to water. He swiped furtively at them. Maker, he hoped old Grant didn't think he was crying. He drummed his fingers on the table until the constable frowned at him. After that he tapped his feet impatiently, feeling as tortured as those times when he'd been forced to sit through a formal tea as a youngster. It was all he could do to keep from squirming.

Finally, Grant cleared his throat and began to speak, his voice gruff. "You're doing a fine, brave thing for your family, Carver. They should be proud of you. You should be proud of yourself. Give me ten minutes to draw up the new judgment and then you'd best get home before the family wonders where you got off to."

Carver felt his mouth fall open and he slammed it shut, feeling pathetically grateful for the man's words. _You should be proud of yourself. _Usually the only time he heard those words were when his mother was scolding him about something he'd done or not done.

Ten minutes later, he left Constable Grant's, the new judgment folded neatly and tucked into his pocket. His footsteps quickened as he headed out of Lothering, only slowing as he neared home. His mother would be hurt and Laria would be furious and he'd have a fight on his hands, but he'd be damned if he'd let them take away the feeling that rested in his chest. It felt as if he'd received a precious gift and he wouldn't let anyone take the feeling away from him.

His confidence stumbled a bit when he saw Ser Bryant's horse in the paddock when he entered the yard. Bollocks, he thought grimly. Just what he needed…his sister would have a champion in her corner. The bright morning dimmed, a shadow painting the ground as a cloud passed in front of the sun.

"Carver!"

~~~oOo~~~

"Are any of his possessions missing?"

Laria, pacing, clasped her hands tightly in front of her, and stopped long enough to glare at Aerin.

"Are you asking me if he's run away from home? No. Nothing is missing, except Carver. It's not like him to just disappear without explanation. Bethany, are you sure he didn't say anything to you that might help us?"

Laria tried to still the fear in her heart, the mocking chant that blamed her for another failure. She stopped in front of Bethany, who was huddled in a chair, tear-stained face turned to the wall. With a shrug, Bethany glanced down at her hands, which were busy shredding a fine lawn handkerchief.

"Bethy? What is it?" Laria asked gently.

"He…he was very upset about the judgment passed on you and he…well, you know how he can be, but he didn't…I don't know that it means anything, Sister. He was just very quiet after he heard."

Laria gave her sister a reassuring smile. "We'll find him, Bethy. I'm sure he's gone off fishing or maybe to visit Peaches."

"Maker preserve us," Leandra said, looking up from her sewing. "Such a grasping young woman."

Grasping young women would be preferable to a missing son, but Laria held her counsel. She'd been surprised by how calmly her mother had taken the news that Carver had gone missing. She'd fixed breakfast and talked of inconsequential things during the meal, but Laria hadn't been able to eat a bite. She'd been about to saddle Mab and go in search of her brother when Aerin had arrived.

"We should check down by the river. Perhaps you're right and he's just gone fishing and lost track of time," Aerin suggested, his voice calm and steady.

"Of course!" she exclaimed, angry and embarrassed that she hadn't already thought to check there. She was out the door and halfway down the hill before she realized what she might find there. She halted abruptly, her hands fisting in her skirt, shaking her head.

"I can't…I…it never occurred to me that he might have dro…" she trailed off, swallowing against a sharp stinging in her throat that announced tears were forming.

She forced herself to continue down to the riverbank with the same stubbornness that held her tears at bay. She had to know, had to make sure for herself that he wasn't there, that he hadn't been caught by a strong current and pulled under. Every year they lost several townspeople to the river. Not Carver, not Carver, not Carver, her mind prayed as she neared the Drakon.

Aerin walked beside her, placing a steadying arm around her waist. "I'm sure he's fine, wherever he is, my love," he reassured and there was a sureness in him, a conviction that acted as a balm, soothing her nerves.

There was no sign of Carver along the banks, the soft soil marred only by the early morning birds and the distinct pattern of a raccoon, whose tracks seemed almost like a child's handprints. Her breath whistled in relief and she sagged against Aerin.

They were almost back at the farm when they saw a tall man hurdle over the low fence and stride towards the house.

"Carver!"

She nearly tripped over the long hem of her gown and she impatiently caught at the folds, lifting them as she ran across the damp grass, her relief so great she could barely breathe. She came to a breathless stop in front of her brother, bending, hands on knees to catch her breath.

"I've…are you alright?" she finally managed, looking up to meet his eyes.

"Stop fussing. Can't a man have a bit of time to himself?"

"You might have at least left a note," she chided coolly.

"Sure. Every time I have to go out to the privy, I'll do that," he retorted, belligerence in his stance.

She flinched. "Where were you, Carver?"

She saw the slight twitch of muscles in his jaws, and his eyes slid away from her gaze to stare beyond her. "You've given us all a scare, Carver. I think we have a right to know where you were."

Silence stretched tautly as sister and brother scowled at each other. Laria felt her nerves tighten as she waited, refusing to give her brother the satisfaction of being the first to speak, to break the silence. She could feel Aerin shift beside her but she wouldn't be distracted, determined to wait out her brother.

The Hawkes were nothing if not stubborn. That thought, flitting in to dislodge her angrier ones almost made her smile. Malcolm Hawke had said that so many times as they were growing up, especially when she and Carver would butt heads and obstinately refuse to relinquish their anger until the other had apologized or conceded defeat. The memory further softened her expression and she finally spoke, a light hand on his arm.

"I'm sorry, Carver, I was just worried."

But he wasn't ready to forgive her, not for being the oldest, she recognized that in the dark look he gave her and her hand fell way, a yearning for a different relationship pulling a sigh from her.

"Fine! You'll find out soon enough, anyway."

"I'll leave if it will help," Aerin offered quietly.

"What does it matter? She'll just tell you later anyway."

Laria frowned, about to give him a set-down for his ill-mannered reply but Carver spoke again, reaching into his pocket as he did so and thrusting a folded sheet of vellum into her hands. She turned it over, only half hearing him as he rambled on about what he'd decided to do for the family and that it was all legal. The seal of the constable's office held the vellum closed and she found her hands were trembling.

"I – I'm sorry, I didn't hear what you said," she whispered, but she knew. She knew by the seal what he'd done. The world tipped, swayed, and continued on as she stared up at him, seeing the adult he would become in his steely gaze.

"I've taken your place in the militia," he announced with proud defiance.

"You…why would you do that? Why would you sneak off and do that?" she whispered, bewildered by the action, afraid to hear the answer, unprepared to accept that it was her fault that he'd done it.

"I did it for you, Laria, for the family. Maker, why won't you let me grow up and do what I can to help?" he raged, the young adult becoming a hurt young boy.

No words came to her. She was grateful, outraged, touched, and terrified, proud of him for taking the step and furious with him for putting himself in harm's way for her. Emotions spun in her head robbing her of her voice, and as the silence stretched between them again, it was Aerin who spoke, his voice as calm and warm as a summer afternoon.

"What an extraordinary gift to give your family, Carver. I know Malcolm would be proud of the courage and strength it took for you to volunteer to take Laria's place."

**A/N:** _Travis Kenji is a character from The Lion's Den and the tale he tells is one out of my imagination, based very loosely on an Icelandic Edda.  
>Quennel is old French and means: oak tree dweller<br>Matthal is a biblical name and means: he who gives  
>Cadfael is Welsh and means: War chieftain<br>Gyfuhart is old English and means: gift of bravery  
>Gebberd is old German and means: gift of strength<em>


	11. Skipping Stones

**A/N: **_Thank you, Lisa! Your help as a beta is goddess-sent!_  
><em>A big thanks to all of you who are lurking, reading and reviewing, I appreciate it so much!<em>

**Skipping Stones**

_It is the duty of a shaman to listen to every complaint, fear and heartbreak that the people of the clan wish to share, while never revealing any of it to other clan members. The shaman is not only the healer for the clan, but the spiritual advisor, the wielder of magic and the teacher. The chieftain holds the power of war; the shaman, of life. The burden is not an easy one, but there is comfort to be taken from this tale I share with you._

_A young shaman, weighed down by the troubles of her clan, sat by a river, weeping softly. So many secrets were held within her heart that it felt as heavy as stone, and she had no one to unburden her soul to. A frog hopped up on a nearby rock, croaking happily as it snatched flies out of the air._

"_Why are you so happy?" the shaman asked._

"_I am free, the flies are plentiful and my heart is as light as a hummingbird's wing. Why would I not be happy?"_

"_I envy you, to be so carefree," the shaman replied, staring at the placid river._

"_Why are you so sad?" the frog countered, hopping closer. _

"_My heart is so full of grim tidings and unhappy burdens that I can no longer hear the meadowlark sing."_

"_Why do you not give them to the wind?" the frog croaked in curiosity._

"_The wind whispers secrets as it blows across the fields."_

"_If not the wind, why not the water?"_

_The shaman tilted her head, listening to the gentle burble of the water as it flowed past them. "I cannot, for the water is constantly murmuring as it flows to the sea." _

_The frog became quiet as it searched for a way to solve the dilemma. It glanced around and saw a shiny stone, glinting in the late afternoon sun. "Give your burdens to a stone. It is quiet and patient, and will listen without judgment and tell no one. It will take the burden from your heart. If you are truly worried that it might speak, skip it across the water and let it sink where it stops. No one will find one stone at the bottom of such a deep river."_

_The shaman leapt up, her smile glowing with joy. "You are clever, my frog friend. I will not forget your help this day."_

"_Until we meet again," the frog replied, bending its head in farewell and hopping into the thick reeds nearby._

_The shaman picked up a handful of small stones, giving a burden to each one before sending it skimming across the river's surface to sink into the depths. When she was done, she felt as light and carefree as a frog catching flies in the late afternoon sun._

_The frog watched the young woman walk away, saw that her step was light and her smile bright. "Go in peace, young one," the frog whispered and transformed into Mother Earth before shimmering and dissolving into the warm breeze__**. Folktale as told to Bryant Aerin Sinclair by his wife Gwyneth, High Shaman of the Hedwynn clan**_.***

**~~~oOo~~~**

Carver wheeled and stormed off as Laria watched, still unable to speak. She started to go after him, not sure what to say but knowing she should say something about the generosity of his act. She halted a few steps later and stood watching, feeling torn and unsettled, as he disappeared into the house, the door slamming behind him.

"Go after him, Laria," Aerin instructed, his voice clipped.

"I don't know what to say. It was a foolishly romantic thing for him to do, but he shouldn't have done it. It was my crime, it should be my punishment."

"You will drive him away permanently if you continue down that path. Is that what you want?"

Laria frowned, shaking her head. "Of course not, but - you don't understand," she began but he waved her words away impatiently, shaking his head and looking both annoyed and frustrated.

"I don't understand? Has it ever occurred to you that _you_ are the one who doesn't understand? Maker's grace, Laria, let him grow up!"

She was stunned by the level of his anger, by the force of his words and she flinched, turning away, feeling exposed and raw. The sudden change from loving and teasing gentleman to the angry man speaking so sharply made her feel physically sick. It also stirred her own anger, frosty spikes that flickered through her blood, turning it cold, and she rounded on Aerin.

"You have no idea how much of myself I've had to give away in order to become the head of the family. I didn't ask for it, I didn't want it, but I will do everything in my power to keep the family safe because that is the only thing my father ever asked of me!"

"He didn't intend for you to martyr yourself and deny your family the right to live their lives _without _your constant interference. You are strangling them, Laria! Especially Carver. He's a young man seeking his way and you deny him by refusing to let him grow up.

"I thought I could help you best by letting you find your way, by holding my peace and letting you come to the truth on your own, but I can't watch you destroying the very thing you are trying to protect. You don't even realize that it is your compulsion that causes you to lose a part of yourself. It's that obsessive need to be in control of every breath they take that is destroying your relationship with your brother."

The words were like a physical blow and she felt the blood leeched from her, leaving her cold. "And you think I can just stop caring? Stop worrying about them simply because you think I'm overbearing? Let them run about doing whatever they want, even if they put themselves and the rest of the family at risk?"

"Is this what your father intended? For you to become so fixated on keeping them safe that you destroy them in the process? Is that how he raised you?"

The gentle, charming lover had disappeared, leaving a hard-edged stranger in his place. Laria stared at him, wondering how she could have been foolish enough to let her guard down and allow herself to fall in love with him. She struggled to keep her voice steady when she spoke. "You should leave now."

"Damnation! Stop throwing yourself on the pyre! If this is what you father wanted for you than he was an incredibly selfish and spiteful man."

She stepped close to him, so close she could feel the heat radiating from him in his anger, her hands clenched tightly into fists. It was painfully obvious that they were very different. His anger was hot and passionate and hers was cold and implacable. "Don't you dare say another word about my father; he was a good man, an honorable man."

Her chin trembled, her control slipping away like bits of mortar that held her walls in place. She was confused; hurt by his lack of understanding and furious at his words. "You should leave. Now," she said again.

"Leaving would make it so much easier for you to continue holding yourself aloof while you pretend that you have nothing but the best intentions for your family."

Without thinking, without realizing, her hand came up and smacked sharply against his cheek. "You have no idea. You have no idea at all," she hissed like a winter wind, the pain in her heart acute and her emotions too close to the surface.

His words, the contempt lacing them, made her feel nauseous and the tears that her pride had pushed aside were in danger of falling. A knot was forming in her chest, threatening to choke her, to crush her. Without another word, appalled by how out of control she was by the ferocity of her anger, she stumbled blindly away from him, from the house, from a life she that she resented every minute of every day.

The river, dappled and silver in the sun, flowed serenely by, such a stark contrast to her emotions that she was momentarily stunned. She sank down on a nearby rock, staring at the water. Her shoulders heaved as sobs rose up, pushing for release and she stubbornly tamped them down again. Why couldn't he understand? A small, strangled sound escaped, and then another. She put her face in her hands and tried to remember how to breathe as memories and the emotions they incited began to roil and churn.

He was relentless, following her to the river, his voice cutting. "How long will you run, Laria? How many more times will you sacrifice yourself because you think that's the only way to protect your family? How long before Carver slips away one night, never looking back, because you drove him to it?"

A shudder trembled through her. "Please, Aerin, I – don't do this," she whispered, the fight abandoning her, leaving her tired and heartsick.

"Why do you resent them so much that you feel compelled to punish them? Or is it guilt over something that makes you do it?"

Raising her head, she stared at him, a dark silhouette against the gaudy sky. He knelt down and she saw her handprint, painted red, glaring from his dark skin and the sobs threatened again. "You can't keep doing this. To yourself, to them. It will destroy all of you."

He was right and the knowledge was a lump in her throat that didn't want to be dislodged. But how to change? How to do what she needed to protect her family and not have their lives uprooted by one careless act on her part or theirs? She blinked back the tears, tried to push away her anger and hurt. But it kept bubbling up.

"I don't – it isn't that I feel guil – that's not true – it's just…" she trailed off and lowered her head again, resting it in her hands, ashamed and horrified by her weakness.

"Stop doing that, Laria. Stop denying yourself the right to talk about whatever happened that made you become obsessed about your family's safety."

"Do not push, please," she begged, her voice thick with her tears. "Why can't we just go back to the way things were?"

"Going back is never the answer, believe me."

A sob broke and another. It took every bit of control she possessed to stop them. "You wouldn't understand; you've never been routed from your bed in the middle of the night to sneak away, leaving everything behind. You've never been the one responsible for it, how could you understand?"

"I understand better than you could possibly imagine," he replied. "But you will lose everything by holding it so tightly. You will smother those you love."

She felt as if she would shatter at the least provocation, her body trembling with the strain of holding onto her emotions. He had to stop pushing or she would break, fly apart like a blown glass figurine dropped on a stone floor. A memory rose of a young girl in a rage, throwing a blown glass figurine of a bird against the rough-hewn stone floor as the girl's mother wept. She blinked the image away, refusing to believe that young girl was her.

"Go away!" she hissed, glaring at him as he knelt beside her.

"I am not going to go away. I am not going to run out and leave you, but you have to break through this, my lady hawk, before it destroys you."

"Why must you be so relentless? You push and push and push!" she yelled, leaping to her feet.

"Why are you so afraid? What secret is it that is slowly eating you alive?"

"You want me to tell you all my secrets but you stand there so self-righteously, as if you haven't any regrets. Aren't there any burdens _you_ carry, Ser Bryant?"

She hated the sound of her voice, the words that burst through her resolve like water through an open floodgate. She looked at Aerin, saw how pale he was under his swarthy skin and felt disgusted with herself.

"I'm…I'm sorry," she whispered, the fight leaving her as quickly as it had arrived. She sank back down, pulling her knees up and resting her cheek on them, letting the tears spill across her hot skin.

"Do you really think that you are the only one who carries a heavy burden?" he asked, his voice still as sharp and hard as a tempered steel blade.

"Of course not. But you push me to talk, yet you never do. Why?"

He paced, long, restless strides that took him away from her and then back, his composure as broken as hers, she realized. "You think if I tell you what an arrogant bastard I once was that you'll suddenly feel better about yourself?"

She flinched at the heat in his words, at the emotion that thickened his voice. She stayed silent, unsure of her words, of her emotions. "Perhaps not, but it might help me to understand you."

He paced back to her and sat down on the low bank of the river, near the rock she perched on. He scooped up a handful of stones, and, picking out the flat, smooth ones, he skipped them across the water. They silently watched as the stones sank out of sight.

"Gwyneth once told me that if you put your burden in a stone and skip it across the water, it will sink out of sight, carrying your burden with it. She believed that literally. I always thought it was a metaphor…that sharing the burden with someone took the weight off you. Maybe she was right, after all, or maybe we both are."

She watched him continue to skip stones and when he turned to her, his eyes were solemn. "I tell you my sordid little secret, you tell me yours. Deal?" he asked gruffly, eyes holding hers in a grim gaze.

"I – I suppose that's fair."

"So be it."

He fell silent and in the cessation of their hostilities Laria became aware of the noises around her; a meadowlark's sweet whistle, the distant incessant cawing of crows, the low hum of bees, the merry _cheeeruppp_ of a frog. She waited quietly for Aerin to begin.

"I met Gwyneth in the Korcari Wilds, when I went in search of my brother, Dylan. He was a chantry scholar, determined to learn more about the 'savage' Chasind. She was an ethereal, fey creature, not of this world. I was so young and she was so different from anyone I had ever met that I fell in love with her despite my better judgment."

The pain in his voice was seasoned by age and introspection. He had spent ten years living with it and, despite herself, Laria leaned forward and touched his shoulder, offering support in the gentle squeeze of her fingers, almost sorry she had pushed him into telling a story that obviously awoke ghosts.

"We discovered Dylan had died while staying with a neighboring tribe, a disease that their medicine woman, or shaman, couldn't cure. He had been burned, as was the custom for those of the tribe who died of illness. Usually the dead are laid out beneath the stars, in the center of a large circle outlined by rock. They are given back to the earth, to feed the other creations of Mother Earth and Father Sky, according to Gwyneth.

"I stayed with the Hedwynn tribe, finding excuses not to leave. I'd requested an extended leave of absence from the King's Guard and I was fascinated with everything about Gwyneth's culture. What could possibly be the harm in staying longer, perhaps continue Dylan's research. Or so I told myself.

"Three months after arriving at the tribe's encampment, Gwyneth and I were bound together. Her mother was the chieftain of the tribe and Gwyneth was the shaman. I had married one of the most important people in the tribe and her time was rarely her own. I began to accompany the hunters on their extended hunting trips, to learn more about their way of life. I thought I would stay with the tribe for the rest of my life, for the rest of our lives."

Aerin paused, scrubbing at his face as if he wanted to scrub away the memory. Laria sat quietly, listening to the whisper of water flowing endlessly by and taking comfort in the constancy of it.

"I was preparing for a long hunt when Gwyneth came and asked me not to go. She had a premonition, she claimed, something terrible would happen if I went on the hunt. I was so cocky, so confident that I had control over my own destiny that I laughed off her concerns, never once stopping to think it might be her that was in danger."

Again he paused, and a great shudder went through him. He reached out and picked up a smooth, flat stone, rubbing it with his thumb as he stared out at the fields and rolling hills across the river. "Two days before I returned, she was captured by a pair of templars. They could have killed her outright, driven their swords of mercy through her heart, but they bound her and marched her off, heading for the Lothering chantry.

"I was sure I could find them before they arrived, my pride and arrogance wouldn't allow me to think otherwise. I would find them and rescue her and that would be that. I caught them when they were still a day's travel south of Lothering. When I came upon them, they were…they appeared to be…abusing Gwyneth and my carefully thought-out rescue turned into a blinding rage. I…" he trailed off and Laria saw the struggle within him, aching for the grief she felt in him.

She stood up and moved to him, gently pressing the fingers of one hand against his cheek, her need to let him know he was not alone overwhelming her need to retreat into her self-imposed misery. He looked at her then, his eyes so dark they appeared black, damp with unshed tears that she knew would not be shed in her presence, if ever.

"I didn't -" he stopped, his voice unsteady. He took a deep breath and gave a huff of laughter, as dark and bitter as cold tea. "I didn't realize I'd wounded her at first, I was so grateful to have her alive, to have ridden to her rescue. She was smiling. Smiling at me as if I hadn't just mortally wounded her!"

He was up and moving, as if he could distance himself, or somehow escape the memory. Laria stood as well, following her instinct, making her way to his side and slipping an arm around his waist, willing her strength into him.

"She wasn't angry. Not with them, not with me. They were doing their duty, she understood that and forgave them for it. They hadn't been abusing her, they had been attending to her blistered feet and chafed wrists."

"There was nothing she could do, no spell that could repair the damage I'd caused. She forgave me and told me not to carry the burden in my heart, to atone if I felt I must, but to let go of the burden. I asked her how I could possibly do that when what I wanted was to lay down beside her and die."

He fell silent again, moving away from her comfort, squatting to skim a stone along the silvered water. "By walking in the steps of the men I'd killed, she told me. And so I did and still do."

She was crying softly, for Gwyneth, for the proud man before her whose sorrow ran so deep, for herself and the child she had once been. She was profoundly and deeply moved by his honesty and the trust he had placed in her. She came and knelt beside him, reaching out to graze her fingertips along his sun-warmed skin, to reconnect him to this time and this place in the hope that the pain of his past would recede. She felt him shudder once, and then he reached for her fingers, cupping her hand in his as she pressed it against his cheek.

"I believe it is your turn now," he said gravely, not even attempting his usual amused smile.

She was silent for long moments, her brain and heart struggling to find a common ground. She needed to tell him, to explain how the family had come to be in Lothering, how she was to blame for their departure in the middle of the night. But there was a more pressing matter to attend to first.

"I don't know what I can possibly say to ease your pain, my wolf, but I would try."

A smile ghosted across his lips and disappeared. He looked exhausted, emotionally drained. She leaned up and let her lips rest briefly on his, before leaning back and pushing herself up. She ran her fingers through her curls, wondering if she had already driven Carver so far away from her that they would never be more than polite strangers.

"I'll tell you anything you wish to know, Aerin, but there's something I need to do first. You're welcome to join me, but I'll understand if you want some time alone."

She was almost to the front door when he caught up to her. He spun her around and bent her back slightly, his lips commanding hers in a kiss that she returned with tender hunger.

"I love you, Lady Hawke. Never doubt that."

Breathless, heart pounding and smile slipping easily onto her lips, she nodded. "I know, Ser Wolf. As I do you."

Another kiss, lips melding and tongues teasing, and then he settled her upright once more. "I'll be down at the river when you're done here."

She nodded, relieved that he wasn't going to ride back to town while she tried to sort through the mess she'd made of her relationship with her family. She stroked his cheek again and then entered the house, quietly closing the door behind her.

Carver was in the kitchen, sitting at the table, his elbows propped on the table and his head in his hands. "Well, I hope you're satisfied, Sister. Mother and Bethy are raging. Mother's a bloody boiling kettle, thank you very much," he said with as much hurt as anger.

She sat down across from him, steeling herself for his rejection, for his anger to break over her, and deservedly so. Tears began to trickle down her cheeks, hot and heavy as they dripped from her jaws, landing on the table with a soft 'plop' as she tried to speak. When she did, it was in a hushed, humbled voice.

"I'm sorry, Carver. I'm so sorry for so many things I don't know where to begin. I want to – I want to be a better sister, but I've – I've forgotten how. Please give me time to learn again."

She stared down at her hands, folded tightly and resting on the table, trying to comprehend what the words would mean to their future, trying to understand how she could change what she had been raised to be. For a minute, her voice completely deserted her as a wave of panic crested, nearly drowning out any words she did have.

He raised his head and his eyes, as blue as a robin's egg, narrowed. "What's this all about? Some new trick to knock me off balance, eh?" he growled.

She could hardly blame him for being suspicious. She had never made it easy for others to approach her, to know who she really was. Her tears continued silently falling, but she found she was smiling through them at the belligerence in his pose, something she recognized and understood, easing the thick knot in her chest. Taking a deep breath, she spoke the words she should have spoken earlier.

"What you did for me was incredibly brave and I should have said so immediately."

Carver's mouth fell open and his eyes narrowed again. "But…"

"No buts, just a heartfelt 'thank you'."

Carver glared at her. "You're having me on, aren't you?"

She felt a stir of anger, of her pride's wound calling for retribution. She strove to ignore both. "No. I mean it. I'll talk to Mother later. It's a sensible plan and I'm grateful."

Carver looked around the kitchen. "There's a blood mage controlling your mind, isn't there?" he asked and this time she saw the teasing smirk come out, sitting blithely on his lips.

She found herself smiling in return and the first faint flicker of hope that she could mend the damage she'd caused her family was born in that moment.

**A/N:** *******_The story about the skipping stones is one I made up when our daughter was little. We were camping by a river and she was feeling really low because we were about to move again and she wasn't happy about it. She was 7 and still remembers it. I just told her daughter the same story earlier this week, and afterwards we walked down to the stream behind the house and skipped stones. She's 7. Maybe one day her daughter will hear the story too._


	12. The Coyote's Dance

**The Coyote's Dance**

_The great coyote leader, Istaqa, grew very powerful, and, as a result, he became conceited, believing he could do anything. Each night he howled his achievements for all to hear. The stars grew weary of his boasting and turned away from him one by one until the sky grew dark and dull. _

_Father Sky was greatly saddened by the coyote's conceit, fearing that the leader of all coyotes would fail his clan should he do nothing but boast each night. He spoke gently with the stars, asking them to return. _

_Citlali, a bright and beautiful star, disagreed. "I cannot bear his bragging, Father Sky. He pays no heed to those under his care. One day he will lose all that makes him who is with his behavior."_

_Heeding the wisdom of the star, Father Sky decided he must teach Istaqa a lesson. Taking on the form of the night wind, he visited the coyote one night._

"_Why do your clansmen not join you as you sing of your accomplishments?" asked the night wind._

_The coyote swished its tail and barked out a laugh. "They are jealous of my deeds, naturally."_

"_Who cares for them while you do this?"_

"_All others fear my prowess and they do not disturb my clan." With that the coyote went back to howling, his song of triumph loud in the quietness of the night. _

_Father Sky went to visit Citlali and explained what he wanted her to do. The star brightened and agreed, slipping silently into the firmament to await the coming of the night._

_As the first notes from Istaqa sounded, she allowed herself to shine more brightly, and then danced across the sky. She twinkled, swaying against the ebony heavens in a blaze of bright red. The coyote had never seen anything so beautiful before and he believed the star was sent for him alone by the great spirit, Father Sky. Without hesitating, Istaqa spoke to the star._

"_You are beautiful, star. I will dance in the sky with you."_

_The star graciously twinkled even more brightly. "Dancing with a star is quite dangerous. Are you sure you wish to do so?"_

"_I am not afraid! I am Istaqa and I am the bravest and fiercest of all creatures."_

_The star consented. "Climb the highest tree and I will wait for you there. Then I will take you to the sky and we shall dance."_

_The coyote climbed the tree, higher and higher, and the branches became smaller and smaller until he thought he would fall but he continued because he was Istaqa and would not bow to fear. _

_Citlali was waiting for him and he held on to her as she took to the sky, spinning and dipping and swaying. Soon his arms ached, tired from holding on so tightly, but he dared not let go, lest he fall to the earth far, far below. _

"_Should you not rest?" he asked the star._

"_I have no need of rest. We shall dance all night!" she exclaimed with a sparkling laugh._

_Another hour passed and his arms were leaden. He started to slip and then he found himself falling through the night sky. _

"_Help!" he cried out to the star, but she was smiling and dancing, and did not hear him._

"_Help!" he cried out to his clan but they had long ago stopped listening to him._

"_Help!" he cried and Father Sky came to him as the night wind._

"_You were foolish, Istaqa. You thought yourself cleverer than Father Sky. You thought yourself more important than your clan. Have you learned anything?"_

_The ground was very close and Istaqa was traveling very fast. He knew he would die if he answered incorrectly. _

"_Yes, Father Sky, for I know it is your wisdom that speaks as the night wind. I have learned much and promise to do better."_

"_Sing each night if you must, coyote, but sing of your clan's exploits; sing for their honor."_

"_So be it," responded the coyote and felt the winds increase around him. They became so strong that they held him aloft. Slowly he was lowered to the ground. He immediately howled his relief and every night thereafter he sang of his clan and the joy he found among them. Citlali looked down and smiled from her place in the heavens. __*****Found in a book entitled: From the Mists of the Forgotten North: Stories of the Chasind**_

**~~~oOo~~~**

**9:20 Dragon Age – Hawke farm near Beacon Hill**

"Laria, you know that isn't possible."

She _did_ know; that was why it hurt so much. She knew, and she hated her family at that minute, and then hated herself for her thoughts. She was a skilled warrior; she should be allowed to prove it to others. She ought to be allowed to demonstrate her skills, but of course she couldn't. Lowering her eyes, she nodded and turned to leave, fists clenched and her chest tight with emotion.

"Lark, don't blame anyone but me for this," her father ordered sternly.

Laria shrugged off his words and ran out of the barn, still clutching the flyer she'd found nailed to the town's small notice-board. Making her way into the house, she stood listening to her mother read to the twins and every sacrifice she'd ever made rose like a climbing vine, wrapping around her and choking her, suffocating her. She had no real friends, had no prospects of ever having them, couldn't train with an arms master, and why? What had she done to be punished? She let out a low growl of anger.

Her mother, looking up, quickly set the book on a table and sent the twins outside. Laria's hands were gripped so tightly she could feel welts forming from her nails and she raged, "I hate this life!"

"You don't mean that, Laria," her mother scolded firmly.

"I do mean it! I hate this life. I can't be who I am because of who Father and Bethany are."

She was surprised to hear herself sobbing, horrified to hear her mother crying softly. Maker, why couldn't they just understand what she needed? The years seemed to stretch out in front of her and a hiccupping sob escaped her. She twisted away from it, from the endless years before her.

The need to break something, to escape the anger that seemed to be consuming her, grew. Gasping, choking on her rage and tears, unsure where the terrible, burning fury was coming from, she watched herself reach for her mother's small glass bird and hurl it at the stone hearth. The fragile figurine shattered into dozens of tiny pieces that seemed to hang in the air, glittering in the sunlight streaming through the window.

Hearing her mother's shocked cry, Laria ran from the room, mortified by her actions and furious with her parents. She didn't stop running until she was in the thick strand of pines that ran adjacent to the farm, the flyer still clenched in her fist. Feeling sick to her stomach, she crumpled to the ground, shaking like she'd come down with the plague.

Gradually the tears passed and the shivering abated. She smoothed out the piece of vellum and read it again, squinting in the waning light. Castle Highever was holding a tournament in search of shield-maidens for the King's Guard. King Maric himself was going to be judging the tournament, and the castle wasn't more than a four hour walk from the village of Beacon Hill. What she wouldn't give to become a shield-maiden in the most decorated and honored regiment in Ferelden.

She plucked at a tuft of grass, her frustration returning. Trials and tests were to be held in the smaller towns in two week's time, and those chosen by the king's men would be sent on to the tournament. She could win, she _knew_ she could. She had trained from the time she was old enough to hold a short sword.

She'd always been mindful of the dangers of making friends anywhere they'd lived. She'd always been careful not to talk about her father's or her sister's skills. She'd always known that an incautious word or action could send them packing off to a new town in the middle of the night and she had lived in constant fear of having her father taken away or killed by templars.

But once, just once, she wished she could do what she wanted. To be a shield-maiden in King Maric's special guard, to be trained to use a shield and sword by a master, to have armor that matched and friends and a normal life? She crawled over to a large evergreen, leaning against the thick trunk, trying to bury her disappointment, which kept rising to the surface and spilling over, forming boastful and hurtful words.

"I could beat all those silly, prissy noble girls."

"I'm tired of babysitting Bethany and Carver."

"Why can't he let me do something_ I_ want just this once?"

"Even if I can't go to the tournament, why can't I at least go to the trials?"

She spent the rest of the day hiding in the forest with her dark thoughts. Even when she heard her father's concerned calls, she stayed where she was. For the first time in her fourteen years, she considered running away. It was her stomach complaining that finally sent her hurrying back to the farmhouse, the sun just a whisker of light in the sky.

"Laria Hawke! Where have you been?" her mother reprimanded. "I have a mind to send you straight to bed for worrying your father with your childish behavior."

A prick of guilt quickly turned into a flare of anger, fueled by her frustration. "Fine. I wasn't hungry anyway!" she retorted.

"That will be enough, Laria," her father said with quiet disappointment.

Tears burned and began to run down her cheeks. She flung them away as she stormed down the short hall to the cramped bedroom she shared with her sister. The door reverberated as she slammed it behind her. They would never understand!

Somehow she would find a way to go to the trials. If she wore her helmet with the visor down, nobody would even know who she was. She could make up a name and disguise her voice. She wasn't going to be denied just because her father and sister were mages.

Not this time, she vowed resolutely.

For two weeks she performed her chores without a fuss, tried to curb her impatience with her brother and sister, and stayed in her mother's good graces. After everyone was asleep each night, she crept out of the house, her sword and shield in hand. She practiced for several hours, fighting mythical dragons made of bales of straw.

On the day of the trials she left the house before the sun rose, grabbing her carefully stowed gear from the loft in the barn. Just before she arrived in the village, she put on her armor, pulling her helmet on and lowering the faceplate. She told the men who were in charge of the trials that her name was Lucy Harper and that yes, her parents were somewhere in the crowd of onlookers.

Besting each of her opponents, Laria worked her way up in the standings until there was only one other left to fight, a girl her own age that lived in the village. Laria thought her name was Avery but she wasn't sure and her heart was beating so loudly in her ears that she missed the name when they were introduced to the crowd.

It took every bit of her strength and determination to win the bout. The other girl was better in many ways, but she was also predictable in her movements. When Laria was declared the winner, cheers erupted from the crowd. Her grin, behind her helmet, felt as though it would split her face.

"Remove your helmet, young woman, and let the crowd see their champion!" Ser Bingley, the King's Captain, instructed, smiling down at her.

With a sick feeling in her stomach, Laria fumbled with the fastening and shook her head. She hadn't thought her plan through, she realized as her heart sank. Through the eye slits of her helmet, she scanned the crowd, noticing that there were a number of acquaintances who would probably recognize her the moment she removed her helmet. The king's men would want to talk to her parents and they would learn very soon that she was not who she said she was. She took a step back, panic rising.

"Come now, don't be shy, girl."

"No, I'm – I can't," she whispered and, gathering up her shield and sword, she ran.

But the damage had been done, she knew that. As soon as she arrived home, breathless and bruised from her fighting, her father guessed where she'd been and what she'd done. She told him everything, heartbroken at his pained expression, the disappointment pushing his shoulders down. He left immediately after her confession, going into town to listen for the rumors and when he came back, his face was pale and drawn. Somehow, he looked older to Laria.

"Start packing, Leandra. Ser Bingley is searching for the champion and we can't afford to have him find her."

No amount of arguing that she could just hide until things blew over would entice her father to stay. Ser Bingley was not a fool and neither were the people of Beacon Hill. It wouldn't take any time at all for the captain to discover that Lucy Harper was actually Laria Hawke.

They decided not to tell Bethany and Carver why they were leaving. Laria was put in charge of entertaining them as her parents packed. The sun had whispered farewell by the time they started out along the southern road. Her mother, sitting in the rickety old cart with their meager possessions and the twins, tried to smile and make a game out of their leaving but she kept glancing back at the small farm. Laria's guilt was a hungry animal that ate at her with every step she took away from the house.

She had no idea how to make it up to her family, how to make her father smile at her again – the real smile that meant they shared a special secret. She couldn't cry, even though she wanted to, because the twins would want to know why. And a small part of her thought it served her right, that the tight knot stinging the back of her throat was part of a punishment she deserved.

The longer they walked, the more distant she felt from her father and she knew if she didn't do something, she would break down. Finally, she stepped closer to him and slipped her hand in his, whispering, "I'm so sorry. I promise I won't ever be so selfish again, Papa Bear. I promise I'll think before I act. Please, _please_ don't stay mad at me."

Her father squeezed her hand. "I'm very sorry you have to make such a promise, Lark," he replied and it made her heart ache to hear the sorrow in his voice, knowing she was the cause of it. She vowed to herself never again to cause him a moment's grief.

**~~~oOo~~~**

**9:28 Dragon Age – Hawke farm near Lothering**

Laria came upon Aerin as he sat skipping stones, waiting patiently for her to return. There was a relaxed slant to his shoulders, as if he'd let go of a heavy burden and she envied him. She made her way quietly down the hill and sank down on the rock beside him, her hand reaching out to rest on his thigh, reassured by the touch. Aerin let the small pebbles he held fall to the ground and then curled his hand around hers.

"How was your talk with Carver?"

"Sadly, he didn't believe me at first, but I finally managed to convince him. I told him not to tell Mother, that I'll do it. Maker, I've truly made a muddle of it, haven't I?" she sighed, resting her head against his shoulder.

He turned slightly and brought his free hand up to tangle in her curls. "Not permanently, my lady hawk," he disagreed and she felt the warmth of his breath against her skin as he dipped his head to kiss her.

A pleasant quarter hour passed as they sat by the river and listened to the sounds of the insects and birds, content to steal an occasional kiss and hold hands. Finally, Aerin prompted, "I think it's time you shared your burden."

He carefully turned her hand over, gently pulling her fingers until her hand was open. He placed a kiss on her exposed palm and then laid several flat, smooth stones there.

Of course he was right, it was more than time to share her burden, but the sun glinting merrily off the river to the accompaniment of a blazing blue sky made her reluctant to ruin the serenity the scene brought with it. She leaned over and kissed him, hoping to divert his attention once more but he returned the kiss and then gave her a raised brow as if to say, "Stop procrastinating."

She sent first one and then another stone skimming out across the silvered expanse of river as she gathered her thoughts. She had done so many things to drive him off, all to no avail. Now that she wanted him to stay, would the truth drive him away?

Taking a deep breath, she related the story of how the Hawkes came to find themselves in Lothering, omitting nothing, her voice rising and falling with emotion. She was surprised to find she was crying as she spoke, and felt the rough pads of his thumbs brushing the tears away as he listened solemnly.

Silence settled between them when she had finished, broken only by the soughing song of the wind mingling with the late afternoon groan of the frogs and the cheerful whistle of the blackbirds. There was a hint of cold approaching from the southerly breeze, a tang of gooseberries in the air, and she found herself longing for the brisk winter winds to come and blow away the remnants of the dead crops.

Sitting quietly, Laria wasn't entirely sure she felt a weight lift, but she was relieved that Aerin didn't seem to condemn her.

He held her in his arms and said, "You blame yourself for everything that followed, all the while resenting your family."

"I just…I was so sure that I could beat all the other contestants. I had this need to prove that I could be a shield-maiden if I wanted. I was so confident that I was right and my parents were wrong. Because of that conceit, I acted rashly, without thought, and people suffered because of it."

"You most of all, I think," he commented.

"Looking back, I believe Carver and Bethany have suffered the most. I swore that I would never put them at risk again through my selfishness. Instead I suffocated them. And when I wasn't busy suffocating them, I was busy pushing everyone away."

She rested against him for a minute and then leaned away again, head lowered. "I was horrible to Quince Barlin," she confessed quietly, a blush warming her cheeks as memories filtered in. "I was lonely and curious about men. I knew he cared for me and I used that. I fought against any feelings I developed for him even knowing how he felt about me, and then I broke things off with him the moment I started to feel anything more than friendship."

Aerin studied her pensively and she found herself holding her breath. "I detect a pattern, my love. You must have felt something for me rather quickly, considering how strongly you fought against the inevitability of _us_," he declared, a smile coming to his lips.

"Yes, somehow I knew you'd get around to that," she replied dryly, surprised to find herself chuckling. "I'm not entirely sure I've forgiven you for coming in and tearing my walls down with such disregard."

Pulling her so close she was breathless, he kissed her with an intensity that made her moan for more when he stopped. She leaned back, trying to catch her breath and saw the teasing glint in his dark eyes.

"Don't you dare preen, Bryant Aerin Sinclair."

"It is in a wolf's nature to preen, my lady hawk. Would you have me go against my nature?"

"You're making that up," she accused, grinning despite herself.

"And you're smiling again. A good day, wouldn't you agree?"

"That I would."

They fell silent again, holding each other, content to watch the sun slide lazily into the darkening sky. Time slipped away, worries drifted down the river.

And in those moments, she thought it might just be possible for old wounds to heal.

**A/N:** _Istaqa is Hopi for coyote man.  
>Citlali is Aztec and means star.<br>__*******__The legend of the coyote who danced with the star is based on a story from the Cheyenne and tweaked to fit the story.  
>Thank you, Lisa, for all your beta-goodness.<br>Thank you to all of you reading, alerting and reviewing. It is deeply appreciated. _


	13. The Heart of the Warrior

**The Heart of the Warrior, the Soul of the Wolf**

_Every nation in Thedas lays claim to the creation of mabari, and we are no different. Fereldans claim that it was Andraste who gave life to them, as they are as tenacious and stubborn as she was. The magisters of the Tevinter Imperium brag that it was they who bred the first mabari war hounds but the magisters claim many things that are not theirs to claim. Our history records that the first mabari were forged by a desperate shaman during the first war with the Great Serpent. _

_Long had the war raged and many of the tribes were decimated. The chieftains gathered for a war council and a young warrior, Birkyta, and her wolf, Conlaoch, were also in attendance. Birkyta was devoted to her wolf companion and spoke to him as if he was her equal. In her mind, he was. And the wolf gave the same respect to his warrior companion._

_Before aught could be settled, the Great Serpent's minions arrived intent on killing the leaders of the clan, ordered to do so by the Great Serpent, who knew without their guidance, the warriors would falter. Birkyta and Conlaoch defended the leaders but even the strongest and most courageous of warriors could not win such a battle, no matter how bravely and nobly her wolf fought at her side. She fell, mortally wounded. _

_A young shaman stepped forward and began to chant, as the wolf, its soul wounded by the loss of his companion, stumbled. And then silence, save the sweetly sung chant, filled the grove where the meeting was being held. From the body of the warrior rose a glorious being of light and the wolf ran to it and was consumed by it. The minions of the Great Serpent stood in awe as a new being emerged from the golden light; neither human nor wolf, but a war hound with the heart of a warrior and the soul of a wolf, emerged. Without thought for its own safety, the war hound charged the line of minions, striking them down with great ferocity until none remained. _

_It is from the joining of warrior and wolf that the first mabari was born, and so it is to this day that they have the heart of a warrior and the soul of a wolf__**.*** An accounting of the first mabari as told by Gambhira Kenji, historian of the Quennel clan, to Loghain Mac Tir on the occasion of his marriage to Leonie Caron. **_

**~~~oOo~~~**

Autumn came and went so quickly that Laria scarcely had time to harvest the honey from the tidy row of bee skeps** in the apple orchards. The harvest was pitifully small, allowing only one jar for the family's use if they were to sell enough for the provisions they would need to see them through the winter.

It seemed as if one morning the trees wore their gay cloaks of gold and scarlet leaves and the next they were shivering, bare-limbed before a wicked southern wind that howled hungrily as it swirled around the house, shrieking to be let in. Fast on the heels of the frigid wind came the first dusting of snow, falling from a pewter sky and quickly covering the bleak landscape like a white lace tablecloth, allowing bits of dark soil and rock to protrude.

Winter also brought the first darkspawn rumors. Laria, in town to sell eggs and the last of the plum jam her mother had put up, listened intently as Quillan, the wheelwright, spoke of an attack on the Bristol farm that involved unspeakably monstrous creatures. The darkspawn had killed two cows and a sheep, dragging them off in the dark to Maker knew where. As he talked, Laria felt a growing unease and by the time he'd finished his tale, she was genuinely frightened.

Without a thought for propriety, Laria raced across the village green and up the steps of the chantry, pulling the door open with such force that she lost her grip on it and the wind caught it, slamming it into the outside wall with a loud bang. Ser Fletcher hurried up to her and helped her close the door against a laughing wind.

"Laria, what brings you here? Is all well at the farm?" the young templar asked, sounding breathless as he tried to keep up with her.

She hurried up the aisle and across the chancel to Aerin's office without breaking stride. She knocked, her knuckles rapping loudly on the door, and it was only then that she realized how erratically her heart was pounding and that Ser Fletcher was beside her, trying to get her attention. Inhaling sharply, she held her breath, willing herself to relax tense muscles as she waited for Aerin's response to her knock.

"He isn't there," Ser Fletcher explained in a rush. "He's gone to speak with the captain of the militia."

Her heart dropped and she gripped the young templar's armor-clad arm. "What news have you of the darkspawn attack?" She was angry at the tremor in her voice, angry with herself for allowing nerves to overcome her common sense. She was the guardian of her family; she had no time to be frightened.

"Only what everyone else knows, Laria," the young man said earnestly. "There was a darkspawn attack at the Bristols' place, but nobody took sick and nobody was killed outright. Ser Bryant sent a message to Ser Duncan, the Warden Commander, and then went to let Captain Threadgood know that the templars stand ready to assist if necessary."

No. Surely the situation wasn't as dire as all that? Would the militia be called into active duty? She stood, uncertain, trying to catch her breath and her thoughts. "Maybe this was just an attack by hungry animals. After all, the drought left precious little for us in the way of food, I can only imagine that it left the animals close to starvation. I've noticed wolves coming in from the hills, especially from the south, ahead of the cold."

Ser Fletcher's expression softened, a perfect mask of sympathy and conciliation, which embarrassed Laria, making her feel ashamed of her panic. When he spoke, his voice was kind, the voice used to calm the masses that all templars seemed to have learned during their training. "I thought it might be, but Bristol is positive these creatures were walking on two legs, not four. We'll know more once the Grey Wardens investigate. All will be well," he added with a reassuring smile.

A shiver wracked her and she clutched at her thick wool cloak. Stories of the old Blights, of the raw savagery of darkspawn, of the horrible sickness and death they spread, flooded Laria's brain, pushing away everything else. "But I thought they had eliminated all the darkspawn in the last Blight," she mumbled as much to herself as her companion.

"Well, sure, we all did. You read about how many were slaughtered back then and it seems impossible to think there could be more, but Ser Duncan told us that they can't seem to completely eradicate them."

Panic receded and common sense rushed in to take its place in the face of his calm demeanor. A few rumors did not a Blight make, she chastised herself. Turning away from Aerin's door, she made her way out of the chantry and into the bitterly cold day. The icy wind stung her cheeks, painfully invigorating, and her eyes watered. The lowering sky promised more snow by nightfall.

Fletcher followed her out and gave her another reassuring smile. "All will be well, you'll see."

With hurried thanks, she ran across the green once more, heading for Constable Grant's. The ground was covered in a dry, powdery snow that squeaked under her boots as she sprinted the short distance.

Opening the door to her, Constable Grant looked harried and irritable. He offered her a cup of tea and a seat by a warm fire, both of which she accepted gratefully.

"You've come to ask about the darkspawn attacks, eh?" he asked, taking the chair across from her and wrapping his hands around his mug.

"Is there proof that it _was_ actually darkspawn?"

"If by proof you mean a darkspawn body then no; none have been found..._yet,_ leastways. Don't you get all worked up, Laria. It could just be a small raiding or scouting party. I've heard tell that happens from time to time, though I've not heard of such in years."

She drank her tea and allowed Grant to ramble on about how many false rumors of darkspawn attacks had been debunked over the years. His confidence was contagious and by the time she'd finished her tea, her steps were considerably lighter. She left the constable with a jar of plum jam and a promise to keep a watch out for bandits and varmints. The winter, he predicted, would be long and difficult.

The snow began to fall again as she finished the last of her errands. She untied Mab and was just about to mount when she was caught from behind and spun around. "My lady hawk," Aerin's cheerful voice greeted and she was pulled close in a brief hug. "I've missed you," he whispered, his breath warm against her skin.

As they walked back to the chantry through the stinging snow, he explained everything he knew about the attack, which was little more than she had learned. She slipped her hand into his and he squeezed it with a reassuring smile. With his hair wind-tossed and his dusky cheeks reddened, he appeared young and carefree and she found herself smiling as they hurried along the snowy street.

Once in his office, he closed the door and opened his arms to her, his kiss deep and heady. His breastplate was cold and hard but his lips were warm and when his tongue swept into her mouth, her heart raced and her hands managed to thread through his dark hair.

With difficulty, he stepped back to remove his gauntlets and she took feminine delight in seeing how quickly his chest was rising and falling. He gave her a cheeky grin before pulling her to him and she gladly raised her face to his for another kiss. Breathless moments later, she stepped back and then moved away, turning to stare at the large painting of the town that hung on his wall, trying to regain her bearings.

"I've sent Ser Maron and Ser Sandria to the farm to keep a watch and also to let them know I've kidnapped you for the night," Aerin stated with a nonchalance that made Laria's ire rise and her heart thud in her chest.

She whirled around to face him, her hands on her hips and her anger pushing aside the wayward thought that she longed to spend the night with him. When she spoke, her words were a reflection of the wintry day. "That was extremely presumptuous, Aerin."

But even as she spoke, there was a part of her that appreciated someone else making decisions and taking control. To relinquish her responsibilities even momentarily was a rare gift. She shook her head, trying to glare at him but as quickly as her cold disapproval had arisen it melted away, a victim of the heat of desire flaring in his dark eyes.

"I am wounded by your sharp tone, Laria. I would never _presume_ to be presumptuous with regard to you," he stated with a raffish smile. "I have a surprise that cannot be taken to the farm. At least," he added, his smile now a wicked grin, "not right away. I have arranged a private room for your stay and your mother is aware of my plans. She was, in fact, the one who thought it best that you spend the night here."

Laria felt a flicker of disappointment at his words and he chuckled as he began to unbuckle his breastplate, as if he had somehow sensed her reaction. "There are times, Ser Bryant, when you are in great need of a thrashing."

"So you have said a time or two, my love, and yet it has not been done. Why is that?"

She was laughing before he'd finished his sentence. "You would enjoy it far too much, I think."

His laughter mingled with hers as he reached out to pull her into another embrace, his lips firm against hers. "And so I might, you brazen woman. Now, after you've been shown your room, come have dinner with us, and give yourself a night without familial worries," he instructed.

She was taken to a small room just down the hall from Aerin's, or so the young redheaded lay sister said in her dulcet Orlesian voice. "You and Ser Bryant are close friends, yes?"

There was a hint of more in the woman's voice and Laria felt her muscles tighten. Though her body was tense, a smile came unbidden to Laria's lips. No doubt I appear both foolish and simpering, she thought wryly. "Yes, he has been of great help to my family."

"Oh, yes. Ser Bryant is a noble man and your family has quite an interesting story, I have been told."

Laria's smile faded and she turned to examine the woman, noticing the strain around the woman's blue eyes, the lines that appeared like parentheses around her mouth. There were fine lines furrowed between her brows. She had not led a quiet life; that much was obvious. And she was not quite as young as Laria had first guessed. Still, she seemed nice enough, just a bit too curious for Laria's comfort.

"I'm not sure who told you such a thing. My family is unremarkable, I assure you," she said, her voice cool and formal. She took a deep breath, intent on softening her tone, but paused when the woman spoke again.

"Oh! Forgive me, I meant nothing sinister, my friend. I sometimes have trouble translating my Orlesian thoughts into the common tongue. I meant only that you had some –"

"Sister Leliana! There you are. Revered Mother Glynis is asking for you," Ser Fletcher said, coming into the small room. He watched the sister retreat and then turned to Laria with a sympathetic smile. "Don't mind her. She's a bit flighty, but not dangerous."

"She seems kind enough. I'm surprised a sister from Orlais isn't serving in Val Royeaux."

Fletcher, his smile boyish and bright, shrugged. "Probably ran out of room there. But she does have a bit of trouble fitting in. Some think she's a bit…well…that maybe she's taken a hit or two to the head," he confided in a low voice.

With that, he gave her another shrug and left her to clean up. She smiled when she spied a plain white muslin nightgown folded neatly and sitting at the end of her bed. Someone had provided her with warm water and a small bar of soap that smelled of summer roses.

Dinner proved to be livelier than she had expected as the templars, lay sisters and brothers, Chanter Devons and the Revered Mother gathered at the long tables.

Chanter Devons smiled at her. "The one who repents, who has faith, unshaken by the darkness of the world, she shall know true peace."

Grinning at their old game, Laria responded without hesitation. "For the Maker shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword."

"How is your mother, dear child?" Revered Mother Glynis asked a moment later, smiling kindly from her position at the head of the table.

A pleasant hour passed as conversations ebbed and flowed. Laria, unused to sharing her meals with anyone other than family, and often in silence, was fascinated, listening to first one conversation and then partaking of another. The food was plentiful, if plain, and wine, mead and ale were available, although she drank only half a glass of wine before switching to water.

After dinner, Aerin walked her to her room and gave her a chaste kiss. "It's good to have you at my side," he said softly, glancing along the passageway before pulling her closer and kissing her again. He stepped back and shook his head. "You are far more tempting than you have any right to be, my lovely hawk."

She was still smiling when he left her and she couldn't remember the last time she had felt so content.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Several hours later, unable to sleep, Laria rose, shivering as her feet made contact with the cold floor. The moon, having fought the clouds for prominence and won, shone through the curtainless window. She could hear the low whine of the wind as it battered tirelessly against the thick walls of the chantry.

Hesitating, she stood in her room, wrapped in a blanket and staring at the pattern of the moonbeams playing on the stark walls. She sighed, moving to the door and then back to the bed several times as indecision played havoc with her.

Finally, she gave a huff of laughter, chiding herself for being a fool. Tossing the blanket back on her bed, she crept silently down the hall and came to his door, her nerves thrumming and her fingers trembling as she eased the door open and slipped inside the room. The fire was no more than a bright bed of coals, radiating heat and casting the room in a pale light. Aerin's form, underneath a mound of blankets, drew her onward and before she lost her nerve, she knelt by the side of his bed.

In the flattering golden glow from the fire, his skin took on a burnished hue, and his thick dark hair fell across his cheek. His expressive face was in repose, his lips parted as he slept. Second thoughts gave chase to her earlier confidence and she wondered if she could ease out of the room before he awoke. She turned away, still on her knees and began to push up to her feet, determined to leave.

"Did you really come here just to ogle me, Lady Hawke? Am I your prey, that you eye me so hungrily?"

She stood quickly, heat suffusing her cheeks. Refusing to turn back to him, she replied, "Naturally you would assume such a thing, Ser Wolf. It would not occur to you that I am merely cold and in search of more blankets."

With a chuckle, he rose and came to her so quickly that her breath caught in her throat. His arms snaked around her waist and he pulled her against him. She could feel the warmth of his skin as well as the heat of his arousal and panic sent her heart fluttering nervously. But she wanted him, wanted to feel him, to be a part of him. She loved him and if their future was uncertain, she wanted their present to be shared.

"If it is warmth you are in need of, dear Lark, allow me to share mine," he whispered in offer, the heat of his breath against her ear sending desire spiking into her.

Another shiver trembled through her and she turned in his arms. Their time together, their moments of privacy, should not be taken for granted. Life had taught her that much, as his own history had taught him, she saw it clearly in his eyes. With hands that held only a hint of nerves, she reached up and traced the contours of his face, her eyes closing of their own volition as her fingers memorized his features; the dimpled, square chin, the high cheekbones, the full lips, the straight, perfectly proportioned nose.

"Laria," he began, his voice stripped of its usual flirtatious humor, his need stark and raw. "I cannot – "

"Nor do I want you to," she interrupted, leaning up to place a kiss on his lips. From there, she moved to his cheek and then an eyelid as he closed his eyes and let out a low sigh of pleasure.

It struck her, as she allowed her hands to thread through his hair, and her lips to continue their exploration, that templars had very little in the way of physical contact. An image of her own family danced in her thoughts. The Hawkes were affectionate by nature; a hug here, a playful slap there, a kiss on the cheek, a teasing pat. Even she and Carver shared the occasional hug or, more often, she would rumple his hair and he would growl at her, but all of them found ways to communicate their affection in a physical way. How lonely it would be not to have that.

"If you persist, I will not –" he began again, his voice dropping lower and again she stopped him.

"I want you, Bryant Aerin Sinclair. I want to spend the night with you. I want us to –" but it was his turn to interrupt her and he did so with a passionate kiss, his hands skimming along her waist and up to her shoulders. One hand cupped the back of her head, pulling her closer until their bodies meshed completely, while the other hand rested on the small of her back.

His tongue inserted itself in her mouth and she moaned against its warmth, a sensation of falling and spinning overtaking her as the kiss deepened and her tongue pushed against his, sweeping into his mouth, making him groan in response. She was impatient to be rid of their clothes, to feel his skin against hers, but there was a languorous pace to his every move, as if he had the need to savor every kiss, every nibble, every touch, every sigh.

He stepped back, his breath no longer calm and measured, his eyes heavy-lidded with passion. Laria's heart and stomach seemed to change places and she let out a ragged breath and then another. His fingers twined with hers and he pulled her with him as he moved closer to the fire.

With infinitely slow and deliberate fingers, he untied the laces of her borrowed nightgown, stopping frequently to drop kisses along her jaw line or the hollow of her throat. Eyes sliding shut, she allowed herself the pleasure of his touch on her skin. She felt his lips moving down her neck and she leaned her head back, exposing more of her neck. He made a sound, deep in his throat that sent another spiral of heat coursing through her blood. She moaned involuntarily as he trailed soft wet kisses along her neck, his tongue and teeth grazing her skin.

Lifting her head, she gazed at him, transfixed by his tender exploration. Golden glints in his dark hair were brought out by the fire's light and she let her fingers trace along his back to tangle in his hair. He nudged the muslin gown from her shoulders, allowing his lips and hands to follow in its wake as the gossamer material drifted down to her waist. His teeth nipped gently at first one breast and then another as he knelt before her, pulling her to him and resting his head against her belly, the long strands of his hair teasing at her skin.

"I love you, my lady hawk," he whispered, voice husky as he looked up the length of her, his eyes holding hers, the depth of his devotion bared in his gaze. "I pledge myself to you, now and for all the days we are granted."

She knelt then, eye to eye with him, her words bubbling out in her joy. "I love you, my dearest wolf. My heart, my soul, and my body are yours. I trust them to your tender mercies."

Moments passed as they knelt before each other, their eyes expressing everything their words couldn't convey. A log settled with a soft sigh, sending a shower of sparks into the room, bright points of golden light that danced in the air like a benediction.

Without a word, she rose, stepping out of the gown as she pulled Aerin to the bed. The remainder of their clothes fell, as if by command, and they came together with the unhurried grace of dancers, their bodies learning as they explored each other, murmuring lovers' promises between fevered kisses.

He hesitated briefly, his expression solemn, his fingers edging the outline of her breasts. "Are you sure about this, Laria? I would not want to think I pres– "

"Now you become serious?" she interrupted, her breath rushing out of her. "How can you have failed to notice just how _much_ I desire this? Desire you? Or is it that you want affirmation that I _do_ desire you?" she asked, laughing softly.

A smile, as fleeting as it was teasing, passed across his features and then he bent, nipping at her lips and gently lowering himself onto her. "I may be a wolf, but I am not without courtesy," he replied with a boyish smile. Dipping his head to kiss her again, he eased himself into her as she wrapped her legs around his waist. She let out a gasp, arching into him, pulling him closer as a delicious feeling of fullness tingled through her.

They paused, allowing the other a moment to adjust. She reached out a hand to brush back a stray lock of his hair, tucking it behind his ear, unwilling to miss the play of emotions on his face. He dipped his head again, tugging at her lip with his teeth, his pace slowing even more, a look of peace illuminating his eyes.

"My lady hawk," he whispered with each stroke, as if to remind himself that it was not a dream and she loved him the more for it.

She loved the feel of his warm skin, the curve of his back and the ripple of his muscles as he moved within her. She loved the hot whisper of need in his voice as he murmured her name. She loved the way their bodies fit together, the way his hips moved in rhythm with hers. She loved the sense of freedom, the depth of her emotions, the physicality of the act. She was utterly lost as his mouth dipped and his teeth scraped down her neck and continued on until he bit gently at a nipple, pulling it into his mouth and sucking.

A cry escaped her, low and hoarse, as she bucked against him. He rolled onto his back, pulling her with him, his eyes hooded as he whispered, "Let yourself fly, my lady hawk."

Their pace quickened then as need and lust overtook tenderness. Laria's heart was a wild bird, beating against its cage as their bodies continued their lesson. She felt Aerin's fingers trailing along her fevered skin, guiding her. A scream was pushing at her and he sat up, capturing her mouth with his, swallowing her cries. And then she felt him arch and it was her turn to swallow his cries.

She felt tears on her cheeks as she clung to him, both of them shivering and shuddering as their pleasure slowly subsided.

They fell asleep long moments later, content, entwined, drifting. She awoke once, long after the fire had become a memory, and lay listening to Aerin breathing deeply. She wrapped her leg around one of his legs and snuggled closer, feeling as if she had finally found home.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Ser Fletcher blushed every time she glanced at him during breakfast. She supposed neither she, nor Aerin, had been quite as clandestine as they could have been. She bit her lip to stifle the childish urge to giggle at his discomfort. What was wrong with her? She glanced at Aerin, who was in deep conversation with a mage who wore dark brown robes. He was, Fletcher explained, a member of the Formari, the merchants of the Mage Towers.

Aerin glanced over at her and gave her a brief smile. "This is Elston, a mage of the Circle of Ferelden. He has several items that I think you'll be interested in. When you've finished eating your _third_ helping," here he paused and gave her a teasing grin before continuing, "we'll go and have a look at his wares."

Mystified and replete, she pushed away from the table and took his proffered arm, thankful that Ser Maron was at the farm because she felt sure he would harass her unmercifully about the reasons for her appetite. Maker, what she wouldn't give for privacy. She ducked her head to hide her smile. Praying to the Maker for privacy in order to make love with a templar was probably pushing the bounds of propriety.

The mage led them down a winding staircase into a basement that Laria hadn't known existed. It was warm and brightly lit and noisy with the sound of puppies yipping. There were four of the mabari pups being taken to the royal kennels, Aerin explained as she crouched down by them, smiling at their antics. She raised a brow, making a great showing as she counted them again.

"I think you mean _five_," she said, laughing as a wet snout pushed against her outstretched hand with enough force to knock her off balance.

"I'm hoping one will imprint to you, my lady. Knowing a mabari keeps you company will put my mind to rest with all this talk of darkspawn."

She picked up the small, brindled puppy as Aerin proceeded to tell her a Chasind tale of the first mabari and the warrior and wolf who were at the heart of it. She loved the tale and when he was done, she was told to walk up to each pup and then walk away. The one meant for her, the one that imprinted to her, would follow her, no matter how far she traveled.

The first three merely watched her walk away before they went back to their play, but the fourth, a dark brown bundle of energy with deep brown eyes, trailed after her, stumpy tail wagging happily. Laria stopped to scoop him up, turning to Aerin and unable to keep her delight in check.

"Thank you, Aerin," she said, leaning up to kiss him. "Words cannot express how wonderful last night was, or how grateful I am for my young Conlaoch."

Aerin chuckled, looking insufferably pleased with himself, in her opinion. "So you _were_ listening to my story."

"Well, you droned on a bit, but yes, I was listening."

An hour later she was mounting Mab. Conloach was nestled in a saddlebag, chewing relentlessly on a leather strap, cocooned in a heavy wool blanket. The snow had stopped but the wind was still bitter and sharp. Laria tied her cloak tightly and then looked down at Aerin's hand, resting lightly on her thigh. She wrapped her gloved hand around his and squeezed.

"I'll be out tomorrow," he said, seemingly as reluctant as she was to part.

"If the weather takes a turn for the worse, don't take the chance," she remonstrated and then sighed. "Maker's grace, listen to me."

"In that case, I am free to warn you to be careful of ice on the way home and not to stray from the house without a weapon."

She was still smiling when she rode out of Lothering a short time later, unperturbed by the harsh winds or the darkening sky.

**~~~oOo~~~**

_**A/N**__: Lisa, you are the heart and soul of this story...thanks for your encouragement and your excellent eyes, Lady Beta!  
>Conloach is Gaelic and means: warrior hound. Birkyta is also Gaelic and means: woman of great strength.<br>*** The story of the first mabari is based loosely on a folk story my great grandmother (a mail-order bride from Sweden) told me when I was very young. It was in answer to my question of why dogs were man's best friend.  
>** Bee skeps were used for over 2000 years. They were tightly woven oval baskets that were placed open-end down.<br>_


	14. Tracks in a Winter Landscape

**Tracks in a Winter Landscape**

_Long ago, when the tribes were still united, and the Great Serpent was still a myth, there lived a young man whose only duty was to keep watch over the winter herds. He learned all the skills he would need from the watcher before him, who had learned from the watcher before him, and so on through the mists of time. _

"_Listen for the whispers that sound like the wind. Listen for the skittering noise of the creatures that travel only in the dark. But most importantly, look for the tracks made fresh in newly fallen snow. What may sound like a wolf will oft times walk on two feet for winter brings out the worst in man. It is the time when he can be counted upon to use all manner of trickery to get what he wants. Even our hunters become dangerous."_

"_Our hunters?" the young man asked, confused. "Why would our hunters try to kill our herd?" _

"_Who can ever know a man's heart turned to ice by the winter winds?"_

_The young man kept watch each night, fighting off wolves and coyotes and other wild creatures that would kill without remorse, using all that he had learned from the ones that came before him. _

_One night, when the moon was hidden behind the mountains, a man, dressed in naught but rough leather, approached the herdsman. He was ragged and dirty, his manner humble and kind._

"_Good lad, I come from far afield and wish only to rest by your fire."_

_The herdsman looked at the man warily. "How do I know you haven't come to steal from our herd?"_

"_I am too cold and hungry to steal; I seek only warmth and companionship."_

_The herdsman pondered the situation and finally spoke. "You may rest by the fire, and I will share my meal."_

_And so the stranger sat near his fire and was grateful. He spoke in a low, soft voice, telling of his adventures and the young man listened, grateful for the company. Hours passed and the young man was lulled into a light sleep._

_Suddenly a great howling commenced, as if a pack of wolves was attacking. Panicked, the young man took up his weapons and ran into the night, his only thought to protect his herd. He was set upon immediately, not by wolves, but by several men, including the weary traveler. _

_It was then, as he lay dying, that he realized he had forgotten the most important rule…he had not checked the tracks in the snow as he had been taught. For if he had he would have known it was not wolves, but men, who possess the most wicked of hearts._ ***_**From a book found in Kinloch Hold, entitled**_: _**Tales from the Alamarri by High Shaman Myrwell**_

**~~~oOo~~~**

Aerin stood in front of the revered mother's desk, waiting for the woman to speak. He noticed, for the first time, the deepening lines in her face; age advanced without regard and he saw that truth in the streaks of silver in her hair and the furrows that edged her mouth and forehead. She motioned for him to sit down in one of the two chairs that stood in front of her desk and he chose the nearer of the two, carefully seating himself so that his armor wouldn't cut into him.

"I've heard from the Grand Cleric. She has approved your request to marry Laria Hawke and has forwarded it to the Divine."

"Thank you, Mother Glynis."

"Will you tell Laria about your work?"

"Yes, I think she needs to know and I believe she'll want to help in any way she can. She has more cause than most to want to see this plan come to fruition."

"Good. When you have told her about us, have her come speak with me." The revered mother looked across the expanse of her desk, a small frown etching new lines into her skin before she continued speaking. "I've had recent correspondence from Mother Dorothea, in West Effingham. She has been recalled to Orlais and she's pledged to seek support within the halls of the Grand Cathedral. She's such an idealist, that one. Still, if anyone has the persuasive skills to rally others to the cause, it is Revered Mother Dorothea."

Aerin frowned but didn't speak. If Mother Glynis trusted in Mother Dorothea to enlist the aid of the Divine, he wouldn't question her, but he felt a stir of unease in the pit of his stomach. Their work in redefining the role of mages within the Chantry's dogma was a dangerous undertaking and they all risked execution for what many would consider heresy. Still, those involved in the movement understood that without reformation they were headed for open rebellion from the mages themselves at some point; it was inevitable. He only hoped that Mother Dorothea was as discerning as Mother Glynis believed her to be.

"Don't worry, Aerin, I trust the mother has our best interests in her heart. She believes we need to listen to the words of the chant without the prejudices behind them," the revered mother said, as if she'd read his thoughts.

"Of course, your Eminence," Aerin replied quietly.

He was in charge of the roster, the list of contacts within Ferelden, and beyond, who were quietly working to establish places where mages, templars and clerics worked together to serve the greater needs of the community. He was also a part of a much smaller group of Reformationists that were tasked with creating the new tenets of the Chantry, precepts that would change the way mages were viewed and treated as well as the role of templars. He found it difficult to believe that the mages were on the verge of open rebellion and he doubted he would see the changes in his lifetime, but he believed in the principles extolled by the Reformationists and he believed Laria would, as well.

"And Sister Leliana?" he asked, rising.

Revered Mother Glynis's frown deepened. "I believe she is Mother Dorothea's protégé and I know she means well, but I can't quite trust her, Maker forgive me. Continue to keep an eye on her. Perhaps Ser Fletcher would be the appropriate one for that."

Aerin smiled briefly. "I'll inform him. I suspect he'll be sorely put out with his visits to the Hawkes' farm curtailed."

"Has he formed an attachment to young Bethany?"

Aerin's earlier smile gave way to a chuckle. "I believe it is Lady Leandra's cooking he's formed an attachment to."

A moment's silence fell and Aerin was about to take his leave when the revered mother spoke again, her voice reflecting her concern. "Now, tell me about the darkspawn sightings. Have there been any in the last week?"

"No credible reports, but I've sent Mercer and Adair to check out the Barlin place. Barlin claims to have seen several odd tracks in his field."

"I wonder if we would be wise to bring the Hawke family into town. I don't like the thought of them out there on their own, especially a mage of Bethany's skills. By the Maker's grace we won't have need of her skills, but if these darkspawn attacks are on the rise, I feel sure we will. I'm also sure you would be a bit less preoccupied were Laria nearer," the revered mother added, her frown easing into a kind smile.

Aerin shook his head. "I'll broach the subject with Laria but I suspect she'll refuse the offer. And unless I tell her entire family about the Reformationists, they'll support her in that refusal."

"Perhaps you should have married Laria without seeking permission from the Chantry, Aerin. These requests can take years to work their way through the proper channels."

Surprised, Aerin quickly glanced at the older woman. She was smiling again, but he knew that her comment was not a jest, rather, it was a thoughtful remark that required his honesty. "Don't think I'm not tempted to do so now, your Eminence, but you know the kind of scrutiny that would invite. We've worked too hard at keeping this quiet to jeopardize it with a selfish act."

"Yes, I suppose you're right. Regardless, try to find time to ride out there soon. Not today, however. By the sound of the wind, we'll have another snowstorm by nightfall."

Knowing the woman was right did not diminish his desire to ride out and check on Laria. They'd seen each other only a handful of times over the past month, and their last visit had been over a fortnight ago, thanks to the capriciousness of the winter weather. With a formal bow, he left the revered mother and went in search of Fletcher. He would have preferred Ser Maron for the task of watching Sister Leliana, but Fletcher really was more suited to the task with his youthful exuberance and air of innocence.

After a brief conversation with Fletcher about his new assignment, he found himself in his office, staring at the wintry landscape. The thick violet clouds were gathering just east of town, the wind pushing them into a towering wall that threatened several inches of fresh snow. With a muttered curse, he turned back to his work.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Icy pellets stung her cheeks, temporarily blinding her as she pushed onward, her tracks covered in seconds by the wind-driven snow. The lantern's flame flickered and danced as she hurried toward the house, caught by gusts of wind that seemed intent on blowing her off her feet. Her breath was coming in gasps, not because of the frigid sweep of wind that plucked at her, but because of the fear that rattled through her, robbing her of thought as well as breath.

She threw a glance over her shoulder, feeling foolish for doing so. Nothing but driving snow and the grotesque dark shapes of trees bent by the wind could be seen. Whatever had left the tracks - _whoever_, she amended, shivering under the onslaught of winter's bitter rage – was gone and had left no hint in what direction they had departed.

The barn loomed before her, and beyond was the welcoming glow of windows lit from within, of hearth and family and safety, barely visible in the blowing snow. She hurried her steps, slipping and sliding as she passed the well-housing, which was sagging under the weight of the snow. She refused to stop and sweep it clean, too intent on getting out of the storm. If the well-house collapsed under the weight, so be it.

Leaning her shoulder against the door, she shoved with all her might and the door flew open, slamming into the wall. She stumbled over the threshold, reaching for the handle, shaking with the cold. A pair of hands helped her push the door closed and she slumped against it, panting. The room seemed unearthly quiet after the roar of the storm, with only the fire crackling a warm greeting.

"Will Mett survive, do you think?" Bethany asked, pulling Laria to the hearth, bustling to take her cloak as Carver looked on.

"Of course she will! She wouldn't dare defy Laria Hawke!" he exclaimed, grinning at her as she warmed her hands. But she saw the question in his bright blue eyes, heard the hidden note of concern in his teasing voice.

She returned his grin, continuing to keep the conversation light. "Why would one ox listen to me when this one doesn't?" she joked, pointing at her brother.

Bethany laughed, reaching up and ruffling Carver's hair. "Very nicely said, Sister."

"Stop that!" Carver barked, the effect lost by the flashing grin that followed his words and was gone again. "You are disturbing a soldier of the Lothering Militia!" he added, puffing his chest out in exaggerated pride.

Bethany rolled her eyes and gave his hair another tousle before moving back to the kitchen, where dinner was being prepared. As soon as she was out of earshot, he leaned close to whisper, "Did you see the tracks I told you about?"

Laria's smile fell away and she nodded grimly. "You were right; there were at least four separate sets. Why the snow doesn't cover them can only mean that they aren't natural."

"That's what I thought. I've got to report this to my captain."

"Not tonight, Carver. The storm should blow itself out by tomorrow morning. Whatever left the tracks is gone now. But where they went without leaving more tracks is a mystery."

"Shhh, we'll talk later," Carver whispered as Bethany called them to dinner.

They gathered around the smaller table in the kitchen. Laria, still shivering, took the seat nearest the kitchen hearth, grateful for the warmth. Steam rose from the bowl of lamb stew in front of her, fragrant with rosemary and thick with meat. She didn't voice her concern about how much lamb and mutton might be left in the cellar, determining to do an inventory of its contents after dinner.

An hour later she stood in the cold cellar, her woolen shawl pulled tight. The inventory had confirmed her fear that they were running dangerously low on meat and she found herself angry with her mother for being so careless with their supplies. There was nothing to do about it except to go hunting in the hope of catching winter hare and, if she was lucky, some wild fowl. At least there were enough vegetables to see them through, and the flour she had managed to purchase with the money from the jam should last the winter as well. Still, she would need to have a talk with her mother, who often forgot that food didn't miraculously appear in the larder or the cellar.

Climbing up the steep ladder, she stepped into the kitchen and kicked the trapdoor shut. Carver was waiting for her, arms folded. Laria pulled the rug into place and straightened, her muscles tensing at Carver's grim look. Bad enough she would have to scold her mother; Maker, she didn't want to fight with Carver again as well.

They were both trying to learn how to get on with the other and there were times when she was sure they had left the past behind them only to stumble over it again. She sighed as exhaustion and tension conspired to make her brain unresponsive.

"It's bad, isn't it?" he asked quietly.

"No, it'll be fine," she said, lying without conscious thought. It was what she had always done - hidden the bad news from the family - just as her father had, just as he had taught her to do.

"Thanks for that. For a minute I thought you might actually trust me."

"Oh? That must have been the same moment I thought you'd actually managed to grow up," she snapped, pushing past him, her anger surprising her with its intensity. She paused in the doorway and turned to see Carver's entire posture shift from concerned brother to angry young man. "I – I'm sorry."

He brushed aside her apology with a shrug. "I'll go hunting on my way home from town tomorrow," he said and she watched as he widened his stance in a stubborn, defensive manner. He was obviously preparing for a long, drawn out fight.

It was on the tip of her tongue to argue that it was her place to do the hunting, but her words died in her throat. It was so easy for each of them to resume the easy familiarity of their old relationship, even though they both recognized how damaging it had been. He was as capable a hunter as she was, yet she still found it difficult to let go of her old habit of protecting him.

She sat down at the kitchen table and ran her fingers through her brown curls before nodding her head. "We have enough for another week or two, but if you happen to see any tracks in the snow then by all means, hunt," she said, adding a strained smile.

"I can deliver a note to Aerin, if you like," he added in a low voice and her strained smile gave way to a grin. "I thought that would do the trick," he sniggered, looking pleased with himself.

"Be careful, Carver, people will think we actually care about each other."

"Bloody fools," he smirked.

Moments passed, each of them content to listen to the wind as it moaned to be let in. "I'll take first watch," she finally said, breaking the silent accord between them.

"You really think that's necessary?"

"I do, yes. Best to be cautious than caught out," she replied, staring at the glowing coals of the fire.

They sat in silence again until Carver yawned. "Wake me in four hours," he instructed and she nodded without glancing up.

"I mean it, Laria," he added and she could almost hear the glare in his voice.

"You really are becoming entirely too bossy," she replied but she glanced over her shoulder at him, offering a smile to soften her words.

The wind died down an hour later, and the house creaked and settled under the mantle of snow it wore. Conlaoch was curled up beside her feet, resting as close to the warmth of the coal as he dared, and she was tempted to sit down on the hearth beside him and absorb his warmth, her body becoming colder and stiffer as the night wore on.

She was just about to wake Carver for his shift when she heard an odd series of noises from outside. Conlaoch growled low in his throat, raising the hair on her arms with the sound. She leaned forward and patted him, aware that his hair was also standing on end, and she whispered, "Hush, Con. Hush boy." She rose slowly, her ears straining almost painfully as she listened for any sound.

Con followed her into the large front room, nearly tripping her in his clumsy need to protect her. She snapped her fingers at him and he stilled beside her, standing alertly, his head tilted. She removed her sword from the weapon stand and then reached for the lantern. Adjusting the flame and the wind-guard, she blinked at the sudden brightness before she picked it up in her free hand.

"Stay, boy. Stay," she whispered and then eased out of the house.

The moon was playing tag with the fast moving clouds, coming out just long enough to illuminate the snow before disappearing again, leaving inky shadows in its wake. Forcing herself to move, she slowly raised the lantern and the expanse of snow became an unbroken expanse of gold under its light.

Mab nickered and then began to whinny. Before Laria could move, she heard a loud neigh and then silence again. Fear momentarily pinned her in place and her grip tightened reflexively on her hilt. She forced her feet to move through the crisp snow that crunched underfoot as she broke through its frozen crust. She was shivering, a combination of nerves and cold, as she put out a hand to unlatch the barn door. Slowly, tentatively, she pushed open the door, jumping nervously as a hinge squealed in protest. Halting, her breath held, she waited, listening.

A part of her, the sensible young woman she claimed to be, chastised herself for entering the barn without first rousting Carver. She eased back a step and then another, aware only of her pounding heart and the stillness of the night now that the wind had died away. And then Mett grunted and began to low. To her shame, a startled scream was wrenched from her.

She eased the door shut and then pulled the latch in place. The cold air helped steady her nerves and she breathed deeply, feeling as if her lungs would never get their fill. The wind stirred again, a long moan of displeasure at it pushed against her. She raised her lantern high and looked at the tracks in the snow. All she saw were her own set of boot prints that ran from the house to the barn.

With an embarrassed huff, she pushed herself away from the barn and began a brisk walk back to the house, her steps made quicker by the cold. As she neared the house, she heard the sound of a horse whinnying and she spun around, barely able to discern the outline of horse and rider as the moon was once again behind thin clouds.

She swung the lantern in a high arc and the horse reared before being brought under control.

"Laria!"

"Master Barlin?"

The horse came to a halt and the elder Barlin, bundled in cloak and cap, stared down at her, his face as white as dough. "I need young Bethy to come quick."

Heart once again racing, Laria nodded, motioning for him to come with her. She felt a constriction in her chest, a terrible thought taking hold, nearly paralyzing her, and her voice was rough and unsteady when she gave voice to it.

"Quince?"

"Took real bad. He - I don't – I don't know what it is," Barlin whispered, his usual bluff and bluster gone, his face reflecting his fears. Her heart twisted in her chest. If Barlin had ridden for help on such a frigid night then Quince was deathly ill…her mind jerked away from the thought as she ushered him into the house.

Carver came stumbling into the room, still lacing his heavy woolen shirt. He stopped when he saw them and Laria, voice gaining strength, instructed, "Fetch Bethany. Tell her to bring her kit. Quince is sick."

Without arguing, Carver wheeled around and went to rouse Bethany. "Sit by the fire, Master Barlin, it will be just a moment."

She went to the barn, her earlier fear gone as she began to saddle Mab. Quince. Her mind felt numbed by the news. She guided Mab from the barn and led her to the house, where Bethany, wrapped in a heavy cloak and knit cap, stood waiting. Seeing that they were ready, Laria swung into the saddle, holding Mab in place.

Her mother, comforting Barlin, nodded to her. "Keep Bethany safe," she instructed. Laria knew the flare of indignation was childish and refused to give voice to it.

"I'll wait until you're back before I leave for town," Carver reassured, coming to stand beside Leandra in a protective stance.

She smiled briefly, nodding her head in thanks and acknowledgement. Bending down, arm extended, she helped Bethany mount behind her. Conlaoch bounded out of the house, coming to heel beside Mab. She took a measure of comfort from his presence and, as soon as Barlin was mounted, they were off across the snowy fields.

Her mind was splintered, fractured by fear and guilt. She knew Bethany was talking to her but she didn't understand the words, wasn't able to decipher them around her own thoughts of Quince and all he meant to her, the things she'd done and not done.

The windows were ablaze with bright golden light as they entered the Barlin farmstead. Dawn was not far off, the sky already shifting from indigo to pale grey. The wind had died down until it was just a cold whisper.

She dismounted and helped Bethany down, clutching at her sister's arm as they entered the house. Quince's brother and sister were huddled in front of the fire, murmuring prayers to the Maker. Old Barlin hurried them through the room and up a narrow flight of stairs. Laria heard Quince before she saw him, his voice fretful and full of pain. She found herself praying, pleas sent to a Maker she wasn't even sure existed.

His skin was as grey as the dawn sky, slickened with sweat and peppered with dark patches of blisters. He was tossing fretfully, muttering and twisting away from his mother's soothing touch. A foul stench arose from him and Laria closed her eyes against the scene, dread and sorrow pushing away the fear and regret. He was beyond help; one glance at Bethany told her as much.

"Do what you can to ease his pain," Laria whispered against the burning in her throat where her tears waited.

She sat down on the bed, taking the wet cloth from his mother's hands and gently stroking Quince's forehead. Bethany began casting, the soft blue glow enveloping Quince. "I'm here, Quince. Tell me what I can do to help," Laria whispered as Old Barlin took his wife in his arms and wept.

"Lark?" Quince whispered, struggling to open his eyes.

"Shhh, just close your eyes and let Bethy heal you."

"No help," he uttered, "D – dark –" he mumbled, his voice trailing off.

"I'll light another lamp," she replied but before she could move, she felt his hand plucking at her sleeve.

"Darkspawn," he finally managed and the tears, impatiently stinging her throat, began to trickle down her cheeks. They had been warned about the darkspawn sickness. It was always fatal, usually killing a person within hours but sometimes taking days and even weeks or months to run its course. There was no cure.

He began shivering, his teeth chattering together and even with half a dozen blankets on him and Bethany's spells, he continued to shiver. Laria, with a questioning glance at Old Barlin, who nodded, stretched out beside her oldest, dearest friend, and held him in her arms.

"It's all right, Quince," she murmured against his fevered skin, over and over again until he finally quieted down.

"I kn – knew I'd win you back soo – sooner or l – l – later," he stuttered quietly and with a sigh, rested his head on her shoulder, his breathing slow and laborious.

"I wish – I wish I'd – "she began, unsure what she would say, but the tears robbed her of her voice, and she felt the sobs gathering, her control slipping away with each painful breath Quince took.

"It is the hubris of man," his mother whispered in a broken voice, "that causes the Maker to punish His children. Find rest in the Beyond, dear boy."

What, Laria wondered darkly, could someone as good and decent as Quince, have ever done that he deserved so early and so painful a death? She bit back her angry, bitter words and instead, continued to whisper softly for Quince to find respite from his pain.

He didn't gasp or convulse, just quietly stopped breathing while Laria held on to him, her tears falling unheeded.

**A/N:** _Thank you, Lisa, for the quick beta and the helpful suggestions. You are awesome!_  
><em>I made the lore up, but its roots can be found in a number of folktales.<em>  
><em>Thank you, mille libri, for the encouragement! I think I'll follow your advice!<em>


	15. When the Stars Tremble

**When the Stars Tremble**

_We believe each star has a voice and a purpose for being. With great consideration and compassion each star was placed in the night firmament by Father Sky and Mother Earth and we rejoice in their brilliant light. They are the keepers of history and lore, of battles won and lost. Long have they witnessed man in all his manifestations, and yet do they ever watch in silence, without judgment, shining with hope that man will prevail in the wars that will come again. And again. _

_These gifts from Father Sky and Mother Earth are more than just sparks in the ocean of night. They are harbingers, for when the stars tremble in the sky you will know it is time to prepare for the return of the Great Serpent. He rides the winds that blow in the shadows of the sky where stars dare not go; when he travels, stars shiver in fear. The stars know that their fate is tied to the Great Serpent and that when he returns they will tumble from a burning sky. _

_Look closely at them, watch for them to tremble and when they do you will know fear__**.***Cloud Dancer Nemishia, twin of the chosen mate, on the occasion of her sister Cerida's Life Celebration**__. _

**~~~oOo~~~**

The same day Aerin learned of the circumstances surrounding Quince Barlin's death a blizzard hit Lothering, the snow falling with such ferocity that he couldn't see the Chanter's Board from the top step of the chantry. His concern for Laria and his impatience with the weather had him snapping and snarling at everyone, but all the frustration in the world didn't stop the driving snow or howling winds. For three days and three nights the storm raged as snow piled up into high drifts. Travel was unthinkable. Not traveling was unbearable.

He paced his office, raw energy radiating from him as he included the aisles of the chantry in his route. He knew Laria would be suffering guilt and remorse over Quince's death. She would, without doubt, bury that guilt deep inside, ignoring it as it slowly ate at her. He wanted to be there to help her come to terms with her grief, to be her support if she needed it, to let her know she was not alone. The irony of that made his pacing intensify.

More than anything else he wanted to see with his own eyes that the Hawke family was well, that the darkspawn hadn't attacked or that Laria hadn't become infected when she'd visited Quince's deathbed. He sought to reassure and be reassured and the wait was intolerable. It wasn't until the revered mother chastised him for his shortness with the lay sisters and brothers that he was able to rein in his ill-temper and put a halt to his endless pacing.

On the fourth day the clouds finally broke apart, revealing a pale sun and washed-out sky that held more grey in it than blue. Ignoring his other duties, he went to the chantry's stables and quickly saddled his charger, Éibhear, refusing to use one of the chantry's staid palfreys.

Before he left, he ordered Ser Maron to ride to the Barlin farm in order to offer assistance and ensure none of the others had become sick with the blight plague. Sister Evina asked to accompany him as she was very concerned about the younger Barlin children. Aerin agreed with a brusque nod, impatient to be on the road. Pausing in his task, he turned to his friend and subordinate. "Be on the alert for darkspawn. If you run into trouble, turn back. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Knight-Captain."

"Give them my condolences. Arrange for the pyre immediately if they have not already done so. I sent a message to Ser Duncan before the blizzard hit but it could be weeks before we hear back from him, even longer if we have more snow."

"Yes, Knight-Captain."

With that, Aerin led his horse out of the stable into the now dazzling brightness of sunlight on freshly fallen snow. Few people were out and about, and those that had braved the cold were busy shoveling paths through the snow. Sound was muted and echoed oddly as greetings were exchanged and he hoped his face reflected the calm he _wanted_ to feel rather than the anxiety he _did_ feel.

The road was lost under the mantle of snow, and high drifts buried familiar landmarks. Éibhear dropped his head, as if the glare of the sun off the snow bothered him, and Aerin gave him a gentle pat on the neck. "Have a heart, mate. You know where we're bound." Éibhear whickered and tossed his head, picking his way slowly in the general direction of the farm.

The usual one hour trip took nearly three hours as his horse plodded through the powdery snow, kicking up little puffs with each step. The snow was treacherous, burying hazards that could easily injure horse or rider and he held on to his growing impatience.

He hoped that Ser Maron and Sister Evina's journey to the Barlin farm proved uneventful, regretting how short he'd been with the man earlier. Laria had an odd effect on his self-confidence, making him feel off-balance and vulnerable in ways he hadn't experienced since his time with Gwyneth, a fact he often tried to hide, though he doubted he had done a decent job of it lately.

He entered the Hawkes' courtyard to see someone had cleared the path between home and barn, heaping piles of snow, glittering in a sun made bolder by the hour. Easing out of the saddle, he wrapped the reins loosely around a fence post and entered the barn, his footsteps muffled by the snow and mud.

Curled up beside Conlaoch, her arm stretched across the dog, face streaked from earlier tears. She appeared to be sleeping, her breath deep and shuddering. Conlaoch wriggled and struggled to inch out from beneath her grasp when he sensed company and who it was. Aerin knelt beside Laria and rubbed behind the mabari's ears, making a shushing noise.

"Shall I see if I can wake the sleeping princess with a kiss and turn her back into my lady hawk?" he whispered to the hound who tilted his head as if giving serious consideration to the question.

She awoke with a start, immediately reaching for a weapon that wasn't there. Aerin didn't give her time to search for one, instead pulling her into his arms and tumbling backwards, bringing her with him. Conlaoch, thinking it was a game, joined them, barking and slathering wet kisses on them. She laughed, groggy and swollen-lidded from crying, but still his beautiful hawk, alive and in his arms.

"Thank the Maker," he whispered against her lips, made warmer by their contact.

She pulled back, her grey eyes wide and unflinching. "You've heard about Quince, haven't you?"

The hay tickled his neck and he pulled her down for another kiss, reassuring himself that she was well. She returned his kiss and gave him another one, soft and sweet, her breath warm against his skin when she spoke.

"I never had a chance to apologize to him," she sighed. "I did so many things wrong with Quince and I didn't tell him how much but I regret every one of them."

"And you think if you had been kinder, if you'd lied to him, that he would still be alive?"

A frown formed between her brows and she shook her head, looking exasperated. "You're putting words in my mouth, Aerin. I didn't say that."

"No, you didn't, but you thought it. Come, my lady hawk, be honest with yourself, if not with me."

Shaking her head, she moved away from him to lean against the slats of the stall behind her. Her chin titled stubbornly and she folded her hands in her lap. "You, of all people, should understand how difficult this is for me."

Anger flared briefly and died as quickly. He watched as Con settled beside her protectively. Of course she was lashing out, afraid of her emotions because she had been taught they didn't matter her entire life. If he had to spend the rest of his life teaching her otherwise, he would. "I _do_ understand, Lark. That's why I'm here."

He watched as Laria's eyes drifted away from him to settle on her fingers, now resting in Con's dark brown fur and she shook her head, looking miserable. "I never meant to cause him pain but I look back, knowing what love feels like, and I know I must have hurt him deeply."

"And that caused the darkspawn to infect him?" he pressed, feeling once again the clench of fear in his stomach that he was going to push her so hard she would finally walk away and not look back. He was surprised by the depth of pain such a thought evoked. How had he fallen so far and so hard that the thought of a life without her in it gave him such pangs? Maker, he had it bad.

"Laria, don't demean his life by feeling guilty over not loving him. He would not thank you for it, nor would he be happy with you blaming yourself. Mourn him, my lady hawk, and I'll mourn him beside you, but don't let his death become something that he would hate."

She sighed and ran her fingers through her tumble of short brown curls, leaving them even more riotous than before, with bits of straw sticking out. He bent his head, trying to hold back his smile at how young and sweet she looked sitting in the hay. But she was in her early twenties and in any other circumstances she would be married with her own family.

Raising her head, she studied him intently. "This isn't just about Quince and how I feel, is it? You've come to take us back to Lothering, haven't you? You really believe you can protect us?" she asked, her frown deepening.

"I have and I can. It's no longer safe out here, Laria. I want to set up temporary arrangements for the farmholds throughout the arling. You are all at risk out here, isolated as you are. We can't protect you from an attack."

"We need to work our lands, Aerin, that's how we survive."

Aerin sat up as well, stretching his legs out and sighing as his muscles relaxed after the long ride. He crossed his ankles and leaned back on his hands, studying her, deliberating whether the time to tell her the truth hadn't just presented itself. But the first thing he had to get across to her was that she wouldn't be able to work the farm in order to support her family if she was dead.

"Quince died, but he's just the first, Laria. If darkspawn are hunting and scouting on the surface, it can only mean one of two things: a Blight is beginning, which is unthinkable, or they are looking for something. Food, perhaps? I don't know, but I've sent word to Duncan. In the meantime, I am not about to -"

"You can't keep interposing your will; I have to think about the family, including the fact that I have a mage for a sister. At least with Bethany out here there is less chance of someone reporting her to your overzealous friends. Moving into town would be tantamount to lighting a beacon and shining it on her. I'll lose her and I don't think I could bear it."

"That won't happen, Laria. There are only a few towns in Ferelden that are friendly to known mages. This is one such town, with very few exceptions. That's why I'm here, that's why I was posted here. That's also why Maron and others like him are here. I suspect that is also the reason Malcolm came to Lothering."

Under different circumstances her look of confusion would have been endearing. He continued, "This town is unexceptional in all ways save one, Laria. Those of us assigned to the Lothering chantry belong to a group of people trying to change the way the Chantry views mages."

Her confusion gave way to disbelief. "What are you saying?"

Aerin smiled, patting the straw beside him in invitation. Her reply was a quirked brow, to which she added, "I am not a mabari to be coaxed, Ser Wolf." His smile broadened.

Finally, he moved towards her and she met him halfway. After a reassuringly long kiss he began to tell her about the Reformationists and their hope for a new Chantry dogma regarding mages and their rights. She listened intently, stopping him occasionally to ask questions, one hand resting lightly on his thigh while the other continued to rest in Con's fur.

"So you believe my father knew about the Reformationists and that's why he chose Lothering?"

"I'd find it an odd coincidence that he found his way to three separate small towns whose priests and templars were, at least at that time, Reformationists. Unlike the fraternities of the Circle of Magi, which are known to the Divine, the Reformationists are a well-guarded secret. Several of our members have been put to the rack or worse, in the hope that they would give up names but we are deliberately vague with our members about who else is also a part of the organization; only two of the members have the entire roster."

"I won't ask who those two are, but I suspect I know one of them."

"Whoever they are it is safer for you not to know, dear hawk. Now, ask of me what you will, and then say you'll happily come to town to be nearer me, if for no other reason."

"Your ego will be your undoing."

"And your stubbornness will be yours," he replied, half in jest. "Only a willful child plays alone when a wolf is nearby."

"I will think on what you've said, love, and discuss it with the others."

"Say that again."

"I said I will think on it."

"Not that, the other part."

She smiled slyly at him. "I'll discuss it with the others?"

He laughed, pulling her close. "I have another serious matter to dis – "

"Ho there! Is that you, Ser Bryant?" The voice conveyed surprise and self-assurance and came from the entrance to the barn.

Laria frowned at Aerin and slowly stood, brushing bits of straw from her trousers. "Is that –"

"Ser Duncan," he finished, standing and holding her close. She trembled in his arms, but only for a moment, stepping away as the Warden entered the barn.

"Ser Duncan, what brings you out to the Hawke farm?"

The man, looking miserably cold and bundled in heavy furs over his armor, replied, "Not the weather, I assure you."

Aerin's nerves tightened around the knot of fear in his stomach and he felt Laria shiver as she moved close to him. "You can't have come in regard to my report; you can't have received it yet."

"Laria! La – ri – a! Mother says to come in and get warm!" Bethany shouted, her voice sounding louder as she approached.

"Please, whatever your reason, say nothing in front of my sister," Laria requested and then turned to look at Aerin. He nodded his affirmation before turning to greet Bethany.

"Oh! Who are you?" the younger woman blurted out.

"This is Ser Duncan, he was an acquaintance of father's. Would you go back to the house and let Mother know we have guests?"

For a minute Aerin thought she would argue with her older sister, but she sighed and nodded, hurrying back to the farmhouse. As soon as she was gone, he turned to Duncan. "How do you come to be here?"

"I've been in the south, investigating several sightings. The rest of my patrol will be here before long. I was hoping to prevail upon the Hawkes' hospitality and camp here tonight."

Laria nodded, an air of reluctance in her manner that puzzled Aerin.

"Thank you, Lady Laria. We'll keep to the lower field, if it will ease your mind."

"That isn't necessary, Commander. You are welcome to use the barn. I would have you in the house if there was enough room. As it is, we are barely able to offer a meal."

Aerin watched as a slow smile came to Duncan. "We've a fresh haunch of venison and a brace of rabbits in way of payment."

A short time later, having filled Duncan in on the sightings as well as Quince's death, Laria led them to the house and the welcoming warmth of fire and a cup of strong tea. There was nothing, Leandra proclaimed as she poured, that couldn't be solved by a nice hot cup of tea.

Stretching his booted feet towards the fire, Aerin wished that sentiment were true. He should return to the chantry, but was loath to do so. Instead, he listened to Carver gush about the heroism of the Wardens and ply Duncan with questions. He couldn't fail to notice how tense Laria grew with each question and he reached out, taking her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze as she laced her fingers with his.

"Carver, would you go down to the cellar and fetch up the last of the carrots and potatoes? I think we'll have a nice rabbit stew tonight," Leandra said, interrupting her son in a firm voice.

Carver, looking abashed, turned a beseeching gaze on Laria. To Aerin's surprise, she spoke up. "I'll get them, Mother."

"Thank you, sister. And mind you check the passageway while you're down there," Carver added and then looked stricken at what he'd said.

Aerin tensed. What passageway? He'd heard of such things, but had never seen any. They were built by families trying to protect their mage relatives. But he wasn't as surprised as Duncan, whose natural swarthiness had become noticeably paler.

"Am I to take it that you have an underground passageway of some kind?"

"That's no concern of yours, Commander," Laria replied coldly.

"I'm sorry, Lady Laria, but you couldn't be more wrong. The darkspawn spend years tunneling underground in search of an Archdemon and the Deep Roads crisscross Ferelden. Underground passages are an invitation for the darkspawn, I assure you."

Without another word, she rose and led them to the cellar. "Father found several abandoned tunnels and he assumed that they were dug when the old Pickering Mine was still in operation. He claimed that there was nothing to worry about except a few spiders."

"Maker, Laria, how far do these go?" Aerin asked, taking a lantern from its hook and holding it high.

"I don't know; there are several passages that father blocked but the main one goes all the way past the Hadden Farm."

"So he didn't build these? They were already here?" Duncan queried.

"They were here," Laria affirmed. "Why?"

"A thieves' nest?" Aerin puzzled aloud and then realized why Duncan had asked the question and fear took root in his belly. "Are you suggesting the _darkspawn_ built these tunnels?" he asked, incredulous.

"I won't know until I explore them and I won't do that without my patrol. Might we speak in private, Lady Laria?"

"Here and now will suit, Ser Duncan. Aerin knows my family and my history. Anything you have to say to me can be spoken in his presence."

At any other time, Aerin would have been inordinately pleased by her words but now, standing in the cool cellar, facing a long, dark tunnel that could be filled with darkspawn, was not the time.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Laria felt her hands trembling and quickly laced them together, waiting for the Commander of the Grey to speak. Urgency filled her, an almost overwhelming need for action to release the gathering tension.

"What I am about to tell you, I tell you in the strictest confidence, Lady Laria, and I must ask that neither you, nor you, Ser Bryant, speak of this to anyone."

"Given the circumstances, I think we can skip the formalities," Aerin interjected. "And you have my word, though I won't speak for Laria."

"Yes, of course," Laria said, knowing as she spoke that it was a lie. If she felt it was something her family needed to know, she would not hesitate to tell them. It was not for a stranger to decide what that should be and she felt herself distrustful of the man.

Without preamble, he began to speak. "Years ago, your father assisted the Grey Wardens on an important project. Unfortunately, he became tainted with the darkspawn sickness and, with the hope of keeping him alive, he was given the Joining. It didn't cure him, but it enabled him to live for almost thirty years –"

Laria felt the earth tremble beneath her feet and a curious sense of her head feeling weightless but her limbs feeling leaden came over her. Her mouth was dry and her hands, still trembling, clenched each other as if in comfort. "You're saying my father was a Grey Warden?" she asked, unable to keep the incredulity from her voice.

"Not as such, no. It was decided by the commander in the Free Marches, Larius…" here he trailed off and Laria felt the ground shift, rather than tremble, as if it was about to open beneath her feet. "Forgive me, I never put the two names together."

"Lark?" she heard Aerin ask in concern, his voice as faint as a whisper.

She felt a cold sweat forming on her skin as the room receded, the light dimming. Oh Maker, don't let me faint, she thought, reaching out for Aerin's hand. He helped her sit on the earthen floor and she bent her head, feeling his cool fingers pressing on the back of her neck as his words, soft and soothing, filled her ears.

It was long moments before she felt able to speak, and it was only the anger sweeping away the shock that gave her any control at all. The faintness was dispelled by her words. "You are telling me that my father helped the Grey Wardens and in return he was tainted so this _Larius_ made him join the organization that was responsible for his illness? What kind of a person does that?"

"I know it sounds –"

She glared at Duncan, furious. "Don't! Don't even try to excuse what happened. My father died too early of a wasting disease because he helped you. Did he volunteer to help? Did he know the risks?" she demanded.

To his credit, he didn't flinch under her onslaught and some part of her was ashamed of taking out her fear and anger on a man not directly involved but she refused to allow that shame to stop her. "Well?" she asked impatiently. "Did he?"

"As I wasn't there, I have no idea, I'm sorry to say. Your father and I only met once and I only know what he, himself, told me. But the circumstances are unusual, I will grant you. Malcolm and I corresponded regularly. He sent in quarterly reports of the area and in return, we left him alone, just as he had been promised."

It was too much to absorb. Her father would still be alive had he not been tasked with assisting the Grey Wardens. Had he volunteered? If so, had he known the risks? Was she supposed to be gladdened by the information? Tears gathered, hot and angry, and her throat burned to release them, but she refused. She felt Aerin's hand, still resting gently against her back, a reminder of his strength and honor.

"You will want to leave first thing in the morning, Commander Duncan, and you will want to avoid this farmhold in the future," she said coldly. "And when you and your men search the tunnels later today, you will bring your findings to me, and only to me. Is that clear?"

A brief flare of heat in his gaze was the only acknowledgement of the anger her words caused. He bowed formally. "Of course."

"Is this man – Commander Larius – still alive?"

He frowned. "He would have succumbed to the taint years ago."

She nodded briskly, turned and climbed up the ladder. The need to escape, to run from the tumultuous thoughts, drove her out of the house without her cloak and then she was running through the drifts down to the river, stumbling and falling headlong into the snow, picking herself up and running on. The river, dull as death and crusted with ice along its banks, wandered slowly along its way. The snow brushed icy fingers along the calves of her legs, the wind pricking her skin. A frigid puff of air was exhaled as sobs gathered in her chest. Damn the Maker! Damn the Grey Wardens! Damn her father and his secrets.

She stared at the slowly moving water, wishing the stones weren't all hidden beneath the snow. She longed to skip a few, wanting to wrap the new burden up in a boulder and chuck it into the river. Had her mother known? Somehow she couldn't imagine her father telling his wife such a thing. _But why didn't he tell _me_?_ She was furious with him and angrier still with herself for being angry with a dead man.

"My lady hawk," Aerin said and she was enveloped first in her cloak and then in his arms. She leaned back to rest against him as the warmth of his body slowly penetrated the numbing cold. The sun was already dipping low and dark plum and salmon streaks, limned in pale gold, laid claim to the sky.

"He did what he felt he had to for the family. He was a brave, lonely man."

No, she argued to herself. He wasn't brave, only a martyr just as she had been for much of her life. Aerin had helped her see what a lonely, miserable existence she had led by following in her father's footsteps. "He kept his family in the dark about so many things, Aerin. And left me in the unenviable position of sorting through it all, to decide what should and shouldn't be revealed."

"Look beyond your anger and you'll see, however misguided it may seem now, he did what he thought was right."

She was shivering and he turned her to face him, dipping to capture her lips in a brief, searing kiss before tucking her head under her chin and wrapping his fur-lined cloak around them both as they stood in the deepening gloom.

"I know he meant well but there are times when I think both Mother and Father lacked the most basic parenting skills. What does that say about me when I become a –" she broke off, grateful for the failing light because she was sure she was blushing.

"Lady Hawke, are you suggesting that you have a desire to nest?" Aerin teased her and she felt a grin growing on her lips.

"Perhaps, one day. Should the right man come along," she added, feeling her tension begin to uncoil.

"And if the right man was here, now? Would you wish to attach yourself to him?"

Her heart skipped a beat and then another. "I suppose so, should he ask the right question."

She leaned against his chest, listening to the rapid beat of his heart. Her grin threatened to split her face but she refused to let him see it, content to stand in the circle of his arms and listen to his voice rumble in his chest as he spoke.

"This is not how I had planned it, Laria, and it will take months, if not years, for the Divine to give her approval, but I would be honored if you would consent to be my wife."

A shiver, having nothing to do with the cold, ran through her and she looked up to find his eyes, almost lost in the growing darkness and then the flashing gleam of his smile when she answered. "I am the one who's honored, and I can think of nothing I want more."

He bent, his lips brushing hers in a brief kiss and then another. "We don't have to wait for the Divine's permission, but it might call unwanted attention to the Reformationists."

"I am willing to wait, for as long as necessary. For marriage and children," she added with another smile.

The anger was gone, swept away by the promises of a new life, a fresh start with Aerin. And while she waited, she could begin to prepare herself, and her family, for the changes that would come with that fresh start.

They clung to each other, the sky continuing its transformation into night. Stars came out and still they stood, huddled together against the cold, finding warmth in each other's embrace. She stepped back, finally. "Mother will need help with dinner and we'll have to find somewhere for you to sleep tonight. I'll bunk with Bethy and you can have my bed, unless you want to share with Carver."

"There are several lewd statements that come to mind, but I'll forgo them for a kiss," was his reply.

As they began walking up the sloping embankment to the farm, she stopped and let her gaze travel upwards. The heavens were made beautiful by myriad stars shimmering in the night sky. As she continued to gaze at them, Aerin's arm around her shoulders, she watched more stars appear, lost for a moment in the splendor of night's mantle.

And then, as if they were all joined by some cosmic string, the stars appeared to tremble.

The wind rose and Laria shivered, allowing herself to be hurried up the hill to the waiting warmth of the hearth and her family.

**A/N:** _Lisa, you are beta awesomeness and I am lucky to have you working your magic on this story. Thank you, Enaid, for the gift of the Cloud Dancer.  
>Thank you to those lurking, following, favoriting, reading and reviewing. I appreciate it so much.<em>

_In truth, stars 'tremble' when the atmospheric turbulence (the phenomenon that makes stars appear to twinkle) is charged by solar storms bombarding the upper atmosphere. Much too prosaic for the story, so I went in search of more knowledge.  
>Many ancient cultures believed that the stars held all the wisdom of the ages and were vessels that transported the soul on its final journey; some believed their 'motion' was a harbinger of events and life cycles. <em>

_Nemishia is a Chasind shape-shifter (Cloud Dancer indicates she shifted into a bird)from The Lion's Den. _


	16. Shadow on the Sun

**Shadow on the Sun**

_It is known among our people that three events will herald the return of the Great Serpent. When the Shadow Walkers step beyond their dark territory to fight man, when the Kingbird's song becomes silent and, when a shadow falls upon the sun, then will the Great Serpent open up the earth and his minions will pour forth to blight the lands_. ***_**Found in the tattered journal of a Chasind tribal chieftain.**_

**~~~oOo~~~**

The Wardens, with Duncan leading them, entered the tunnels immediately after dinner, each man in the patrol carrying a pack. There was an air of grim determination emanating from them, and Laria admired their steadfast courage in facing whatever might be lurking in the tunnels.

Before he left the warmth of the kitchen, Duncan asked to speak with her privately, indicating with a wry smile that he understood Aerin would join them. Laria allowed herself to unbend enough to return his smile with a brief one of her own and she climbed down the ladder to the cellar, the only place she knew they would not be heard.

When they were alone, he turned to her with a serious expression, his voice compelling as he spoke. "I understand that you have no reason to trust me, or any Grey Warden, but I have no idea how deep the tunnels are, nor where they might lead. It is impossible for me to know how long we'll be investigating or even if we'll return here when finished."

Laria nodded, though in truth, she had not given much thought to the plan and the idea of Wardens traveling beneath her home, chasing darkspawn, made her shiver slightly. She moved closer to Aerin until she felt his arm against her own, grounding her from flights of terror at the thought of what might be living under her very feet.

"I ask that you send this to our compound in Denerim. My Second, Hargrave, will need to know in order to contact the Wardens in other nations. We are too few here in Ferelden should this prove to be a horde forming, or, Maker forbid, a Blight beginning. I don't say that to alarm you, Laria, but to warn you. Whatever the darkspawn are up to, it is not an ordinary scouting mission to the surface."

Laria's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "How could you possibly know that?"

She watched a brief struggle take place in the man, an internal war that led to an unhappy sigh when he seemed to have lost the battle. She saw the guilt in his eyes, the pain of something he felt responsible for in the grim lines of his face.

"What I am about to tell you I ask you not to repeat," he began and then waited until Laria nodded briefly before continuing, "Part of what makes us Grey Wardens is our ability to sense the darkspawn, we're connected to their consciousness. This is no small patrol or two causing havoc. My blood tells me there are thousands forming somewhere in the Deep Roads and while I don't know when they will strike, or where, I know it is inevitable."

Heart pounding anxiously against her ribs, she nodded, realizing he believed what he was saying, that he hadn't uttered the warning as a means of scaring her but because he felt he owed her family some recompense for her father.

"You would recommend we relocate to Lothering," she said, grasping the reason for his honesty.

"I would, Laria. And if you can manage to convince the other farmers to do the same, do so. And quickly." The urgency in his voice caused the hair on her arms to rise and another shiver rattled down her spine and back up.

"But for how long? Every day that we aren't working our farm is a day closer to losing everything we own," she protested, even as she mentally began to pack their possessions.

"I don't know. I hope the tunnels will tell me more precisely."

She nodded once, her teeth worrying her bottom lip as she tried to prepare mentally for another year without crops to support them. What more could she sell to passing merchants? She sighed. Where would they stay? While she and Carver would be comfortable enough sleeping on the hard ground, she knew her mother and sister would suffer from doing so.

Aerin's hand found hers and he squeezed it reassuringly. "We'll find places for everyone who moves into town," he vowed.

A lofty and noble promise but how would that be possible? And her mother would not willingly leave the farm to settle in town. Perhaps Elder Miriam would take her mother and Bethany in.

After promising to dispatch the sealed letter he'd give her, she watched Duncan heft his pack and start down one of the dark, snaking tunnels. Another violent shiver ran through her and Aerin's arm slipped around her shoulders, his warmth comforting.

Two hours after the Wardens' departure, Laria and Aerin sat quietly before a dying fire. She couldn't sleep and a part of her wondered if she would ever be able to sleep soundly again. She knew too much about the Wardens and yet not enough, her brain searching for hidden meaning in Duncan's words and discovering none because she didn't have enough information. She found it nearly impossible to sit still, but Aerin was dozing and she forced herself to sit quietly.

Emotions churned within her. She was betrothed to the one man who had fought his way through her defenses with grace and tenacity. She should be celebrating, giddy and excited, but instead she was trying to decide what the family would leave behind when they, once again, left their home. But the reason was different and she had to believe that Aerin was right, that Bethy would be safe from the other templars.

"You are so tightly wound you will break at the slightest provocation," Aerin said around a yawn. His eyes opened and he turned his head to her, an indolent smile lifting his lips. "Should you not be reveling in your good fortune that a man of my ilk has asked for your hand?"

"You are the vainest man I have ever met," she huffed, but her answering smile took any sting from the words.

"I am not vain, Lady Hawke, merely honest."

A chuckle was surprised from her and she leaned in to give him a brief kiss. Not content with that, he pulled her closer, his strong hands sweeping up her back, his fingers light upon her skin, his mouth moving over hers with silken want. She felt like a flower blossoming under his touch, opening to the warmth of his ardor and a ragged breath escaped her. She felt his body shudder as her own fingers lingered on his woolen-clad thighs. Words were unnecessary and they held each other, content to breathe the same air, both of them eventually drifting into a light sleep.

The Wardens returned six days later, Duncan rapping loudly on the trap door. He was filthy, covered in black ichor and dried blood. He came back with one less man than he'd left with and Laria's stomach gave a sickening lurch when he shook his head.

"You shouldn't be around us until we've scrubbed up, Laria," he warned quietly, the lack of sleep and the obvious grief he felt adding a roughness to his voice that made her heart ache for him, finally seeing him not as an evil or dishonest and furtive man, but simply a man who did what he had to do, no matter the cost to himself or others.

Without a word, she set about heating water and filling the bronze bathing tub, grateful her mother and Bethany had gone to stay with Elder Miriam. After arranging a screen around the tub, she wiped her hands on her trousers and made her way out to the barn to feed the animals, grateful that there was enough venison stew left over for the men.

"Tunnels can't be that long if they're already back," Carver said, throwing himself down in the straw beside Mab. "Maybe all this darkspawn talk is just that – a bunch of talk."

Shaking her head, Laria said, "Not from the look of Commander Duncan and his men. Stay out here until they're done. He made it sound like they were contagious."

Carver, chewing the end of a piece of straw, shrugged. "At least your jaw doesn't get all tight when you say his name now," he commented shrewdly, his smirk in plain view.

"Have I mentioned lately how obnoxious a little brother you are?" she asked, forking more straw into Mab's stall and hitting her brother squarely in the face with a forkful as she did so.

Rolling onto his feet with surprising grace, Carver rounded on her. "You have become unbearably smug since that old templar fella started courting you," he teased, grabbing the pitchfork from her and stabbing at the straw, spreading it out with quick, even strokes.

"Old templar fella? Seriously? That's the best you can do?" She patted Mab's rump and tilted her head, listening for the sound of Aerin's horse, Éibhear.

"Moon-faced over a tin-head!" Carver snickered and she rounded on him, her hands curled into fists, before striking out, fingers uncurling so she could tickle him. Carver's snicker gave way to a belly laugh.

"Why weren't you like this before?" he asked and the laughter that welled within her died. He looked apprehensive and apologetic but she found she wasn't hurt by his question, only surprised that he hadn't asked it sooner.

He leaned the pitchfork on the wall and sank down on his heels in the straw, his expression touching her with its sincerity.

Sitting down beside him, she shook her head, trying to find words. She wasn't sure she could explain because she wasn't sure she understood it herself, but she wanted to try. Drawing her legs up, she wrapped her arms around them and rested her cheek on her knees, facing Carver.

"I think I was afraid of you," she answered honestly, watching his blue eyes widen in further surprise by her admission.

Snorting, he shook his head but didn't say anything. The accord between them, still tentative and newly found, felt even more fragile in that moment as she held her breath, waiting for a cutting remark. Instead, he shrugged. "Yeah, I'm pretty scary."

"Well, you can frighten a baby into tears from what I remember," Laria teased and watched as color flooded his cheeks.

"That was an accident," he mumbled, ducking his head as they both recalled the time a local woman and her baby had stopped to visit with their mother and the baby had taken one look at Carver and started howling. "And I can't think why _you'd_ be afraid of me. It's not like you couldn't take me down in a fair fight."

"Not afraid of you physically, Carver, but afraid that you'd see I'm not the bravest, strongest person to lead the family. I – I was so busy trying to be what Papa wanted me to be that I was afraid being around you would show him how wrong he was to place his trust in me, or that you would see it and point it out. It's funny how our mind tricks us into believing nonsense."

"You can say that again," he agreed, nudging her with his shoulder. "So, are you still scared?" he asked and when she shook her head, he shook his. "That's a mistake," he teased.

She smiled and stood up. "I don't doubt it, but I've spent long enough being afraid of everything."

He nodded, scrambling up to his feet and flinging an arm around her with such enthusiasm that she nearly fell face first into the hay. "Come on; let's go see what the Wardens found."

The Wardens had sent the darkspawn back into the bowels of the earth but, Duncan warned, that was a temporary state. As they gathered around the table greedily eating the venison stew, he explained that he was leaving the following morning for Denerim, to advise King Cailan.

"I am going to recommend he call up the armies and militias. Something is calling the spawn to the south."

"Something?" Carver asked, wide-eyed.

Laria gave a prayer of thanks to Andraste that he was in the militia. His interest in, and admiration for, the Grey Wardens shone from him like a beacon and, had he been free to do so, he would have asked to be recruited. She had no doubt that Duncan would have agreed to it and the thought made her appetite disappear.

Aerin, across the table from her, gave her a reassuring smile but she felt a darkness gnawing at her happiness, a sense of inevitability growing inside her. They weren't the masters of their own destinies, but victims of the whimsical and cruel winds of fate.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Puddles of melted snow refroze each night, only to thaw the next day under the warm embrace of the sun. Winter was slowly being overtaken by a determined Spring. Each day whispered promises of sunshine and hope; renewal came on the wings of the warming wind. Sightings of darkspawn gradually declined. Days and then weeks went by without mention of them and the oppressive foreboding eased.

One day the puddles evaporated. Farmers returned to their lands, despite the warnings that it was merely a pause in the activity. People slowly began to emerge from their homes. Fallow fields were plowed, seed stocks were prepared and fears receded.

It was a time when Laria's apprehensions grew. It was too early for the last frost to have departed, too soon to plant crops and why had the darkspawn suddenly vanished, after tormenting them all winter? She insisted that Bethy and her mother stay on with Elder Miriam.

She cautioned the Barlins and Stackhopes to stay in town until the Wardens, two of whom had stayed in Lothering, said it was safe to venture back to their farms. No amount of talking could convince them to stay during planting season and she felt a crushing weight of fear and frustration assault her as she watched them loading up their carts and heading out of town.

A day after their departure, a royal edict, signed by King Cailan, was read in the town square. The militia of Lothering was mustered and ordered to report to the 3rd Royal Brigade, under the leadership of Captain Varel. They were to depart within twenty-four hours of the mustering.

"I'll be all right, Mother, don't worry. I'll be back before you know it. Don't cry so," Carver comforted the next day as he prepared to leave. He looked over her head to find Laria's gaze, desperately seeking help.

Laria gently pulled her mother away and nodded to Carver. "Stay safe, Carver, and we'll be here when you return," she assured, and turned to her mother, adding sternly, "Send him away properly, Mother, you don't want him to remember you all teary-eyed, do you?"

It took every ounce of her strength to watch Carver march off, looking unaccountably young in his highly polished armor, his pack stuffed with rations and notes and a warm scarf and extra socks. Their mother was prostrate with grief that her son was being sent away, and Bethany was too calm. Laria felt a sense of helplessness as she watched him march away, his figure lost in a sea of men.

Lothering seemed deserted once the farmers returned to their farms and the militia departed to amass south in a place called Ostagar. Troops from Denerim and the Bannorn marched through Lothering, bringing a brief boon of unexpected business to merchants in town, and a reality that none of them could ignore.

A week later Laria, having failed miserably at consoling her mother, decided it was time to check on their farm. Her need for fresh air and escape was so strong it overcame her concerns about traveling outside the village. She was saddling Mab when Aerin arrived in the stables, his expression deceptively calm, almost teasing.

"My lady hawk, where are you off to?" he asked with casual disinterest, made less so by the press of his hand as it rested on the small of her back.

She tightened the cinch before speaking. "I need to check our farm, Aerin. Sooner or later we'll be able to return and it would be nice if there was something to return to. Do not worry so, I will be perfectly safe."

"Of course you will. What harm could befall a single woman traveling the countryside when both darkspawn and soldiers are about?"

She felt anger wicking along her nerves and turned to look at him through narrowed eyes, the tension of the past week curling hotly at his presumption. "I am quite capable of looking after myself, thank you. I did manage on my own for a number of years," she retorted icily and then sighed, striving for a less confrontational manner.

The stress of living under the constant scrutiny of chantry and friends had left them both frustrated and on edge as they had been consumed by duties and responsibilities at a time when they both needed the company of the other, to find a glimmer of light in the dark times. She knew that, yet her anger did not diminish when he responded curtly, "Yes, but without the fear of darkspawn."

"There hasn't been a sighting of darkspawn in weeks, Aerin."

"Oh. Well, in that case, I wish you Maker's blessings and safe journey," he replied with a thinly veiled sarcasm, looking stung by her tone.

She swayed and rose up to her full height and surprised them with a swift, firm kiss on his lips. "I appreciate your concern, but I can't live in a cocoon forever, Aerin."

"At least wait until I can accompany you, or take Con. He could use a run in the countryside."

She raised a brow at that, and reached out to brush his thick dark hair back, tucking a stray strand behind his ear. "Con has orders to watch over Mother and Bethany while I'm gone. Mother seems to find comfort in him now that Carver's gone. I promise I will be safe, my dear wolf."

"I cannot stop you, Lark, can I?" he asked, a wisp of sadness in his voice reflected in his eyes.

"I will return in time for dinner," she promised, preparing to mount. She felt his hands as he helped lift her into the saddle and then he stepped back, bowing slightly at the waist.

The air was cool and crisp against her skin and smelled of freshly dug earth. She cantered along the road, muscles loosening their rigid grasp as the miles went by. Any guilt she felt at leaving her familial responsibilities behind were overwritten by the blaze of blue sky overhead. Her smile grew as the wind tossed her curls and she felt the burdens shift and fall behind her.

She shouldn't have been surprised by the state of the farm, but she was. Sliding out of the saddle she felt a heavy weight settle in her as she looked at the door, gaping open on only one hinge. She called out, her voice rough with a sudden attack of nerves and she unsheathed her sword with a quiet _snick_.

They hadn't left much for thieves to take, but what little they had left was gone. She made her way to kitchen on legs that were shaking slightly, and her grip tightened on the hilt of her sword. The only occupants in the house seemed to be a family of chipmunks, scurrying and chattering in agitation when she came upon them. She let out a small cry of alarm, feeling foolish for having done so as she watched them scamper away.

The trapdoor lay open, the mat that had covered it gone. She felt her skin prickle as her hair stood on end and she forced herself to close the door, praying that nothing had escaped from the depths of the tunnels. Why hadn't they thought to nail it shut? Would there even be any nails left? Or a hammer, for that matter. She took a step back and then another, swinging around to ensure the way was clear, listening closely for any sound other than the erratic pounding of blood through her veins.

She found, to her relief, that the small kit of tools, including the nails forged by Carver, was still tucked away in its place in the barn. Almost everything else was gone and she felt tears sting her eyes. The tools forged by her father's hand, the upright horseshoe that had hung over the door to ward off evil spirits, and everything of any value had been taken by Maker only knew who. And while it was to be expected, Laria found herself both angry and depressed by the nature of man.

Thirsty and discouraged, she turned away from the barn, going to the well and beginning to crank the handle. The mechanism groaned as the rope slowly wound around the spindle. A low, unhappy laugh was forced from her when she discovered that even the bucket had been taken by thieves.

The fields, lying bare under the soft spring sunshine, seemed to mock her. She should be tilling soil and preparing seeds, not standing in the middle of a fallow field clutching a sword and praying she was alone. And as she stood silently surveying the vestiges of her old life, she tilted her head, listening. A shiver sped down her spine and another followed. She found herself easing back to Mab, her sword shaking in her hand, any thought of nailing the trapdoor fleeing.

Aside from the hum of wind brushing through new leaves, the air around her was curiously quiet. No hum of bees, no chatter of magpies, no lilting song from the kingbirds…nothing that indicated life at all. In fact, the only life she had seen at all since arriving had been the chipmunks inside that had disappeared so quickly, and there was an unnatural stillness around her that seemed to scream a warning. Why hadn't she noticed it sooner?

She couldn't bring herself to turn and run, her eyes locked on a spot in the field that seemed to buckle and split open. She let out a pent up scream as a creature emerged, followed quickly by two more, short and savage and as dark as night. She stumbled backwards, her mouth too dry to whistle for Mab, her mind frantically urging unresponsive muscles to move.

The creatures made odd clattering, clicking noises and one let out a guttural sound that could almost be a laugh, which seemed to break the spell that had locked Laria in place. She turned on her heel and ran for her horse who was stamping the ground and nickering nervously, eyes rolling in fear. Grabbing Mab's mane, Laria pulled herself into the saddle, her boots digging into the horse's flanks to urge haste.

An arrow caught her low in her back, just above her hip. White hot pain lanced through her until it felt as if her blood was on fire. She leaned low in the saddle, furiously yelling at Mab to fly, gripping the mane with her fists and hanging on as the horse galloped across the fields in the direction of Lothering.

When she was convinced that the darkspawn weren't following her, she gradually released her hold on Mab and sat up, reaching for the reins that were still wound around the low pommel of the saddle. She was panting, her heart still pounding in her chest and sweat was runny in sticky rivulets down her neck and beading on her forehead. She wiped her face with her sleeve and breathed deeply, trying to regain her calm.

The fiery ache of the arrow made her every move painful and she reached back a gloved hand to touch the shaft, wondering if she should pull it out. Would the arrowhead remain? Had the creatures the wherewithal to attach their arrowheads well enough that pulling the arrow out would bring the arrowhead as well? Was it barbed? Was it tainted? Was it designed to do more damage when removed? And Maker's mercy, what had they dipped the arrowhead in to make it feel like burning ice? Was that what the darkspawn sickness felt like in the beginning? Burning ice? Her hands began to shake uncontrollably.

In the end, she left the arrow where it was, deciding she'd been foolish enough for one day and pulling an arrow out while cantering along a dusty road was monumentally foolish. She wasn't about to stop and perform such an action.

When Lothering loomed on the horizon, she sighed in relief, leaning down to rest her head on Mab's neck, whispering her thanks to her tired horse. Fearful of frightening the townspeople by galloping into the village with an arrow in her back, Laria sat upright and pulled gently on the reins. She would have to take the arrow out before she reached the outskirts of the town. The thought was not a happy one and her fingers began to tremble at the thought.

Growling at the pain, she slowly dismounted and reached behind her, wrapping a gloved hand around the shaft. Counting to three, she gritted her teeth and pulled straight back on the arrow, a sharp, wordless cry of pain escaping her. Pressing her hand against the wound, she felt the sticky warmth of blood seeping through her glove. Her knees gave way and she sank to the ground, continuing to hold her hand in place in order to staunch the flow of blood. She looked at the arrow in her other hand and was relieved to see that the edges were smooth and the arrowhead completely intact.

Her relief was short-lived as a wave of nausea assaulted her and she stumbled to her feet, moving to a clump of bushes. Falling to her knees, she emptied the contents of her stomach, feeling weak and shaken. Crawling back to Mab, who was pawing the ground anxiously, Laria fought to stand, her sight increasingly darker around the edges. Urging her muscles to act on her commands, she stood on wobbly legs and somehow, through sheer stubborn force of will, pulled herself into the saddle. Her wound began to bleed again and she felt the sticky tracks running along her hip and then down the back of her leg, tickling nerves along the way.

Clinging to Mab's mane, she whispered commands in the horse's ear and Mab started off at a sedate pace. Each step caused Laria's muscles to tense, sending ripples of pain outward. She closed her eyes, weak tears pooling and sliding silently down her cheeks, leaving a pristine path in their wake.

Voices roused her and she slowly opened her eyes to find herself surrounded by townspeople all of whom sounded as if they were yelling at her. She blinked at them, bleary-eyed and rummy. Why were they all talking so loud? She closed her eyes again, hoping to return to the cool, dark place of her dreams.

Arms folded around her and she felt herself being carried. "I'm sorry," she mumbled, crying out when the arms tightened around her. Tears formed again and she felt the cool comfort of silverite as she turned away from the noisy crowd.

"Hush, Lark, I'm here." Aerin's voice, cool and reassuring and she found herself relaxing against him, her eyes remaining closed, tears leaking from beneath her eyelids. The world receded and she found the dark place again, the place where the pain couldn't follow.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Opening her eyes, she squinted against the brightness. Once her eyes had adjusted, she glanced around the familiar room. She was in the chantry, in the room she'd been given on previous visits. Her eyes continued their exploration. Aerin was in a chair beside the bed, his eyes closed, his head tipped back, resting against the wall. Conlaoch was curled up on the floor and eyed her with dark reproach. Her memories began to filter through her sleep-clogged brain and she struggled to sit up before conceding defeat. Holding out her hand, Con rose to stand under it, accepting her apology before carefully licking the side of her face.

"Don't think you'll earn my forgiveness so easily," Aerin remarked quietly. "I've had three days and nights to work myself into a rage."

She closed her eyes again and felt his arm around her shoulder, helping her sit up. "Try to drink something," he urged, holding a cup to her lips. As soon as she had had her fill, he quietly and carefully extricated himself, returning to his seat beside the bed.

Long moments of steely silence followed. The chasm that loomed between them was of her making and she knew it was up to her to bridge it, to fill it, to somehow make it surmountable.

He was pale under his normal swarthiness; violet circles seemed to have been brushed with uneven strokes under his eyes, his dark gaze unreadable. She had done that, caused him pain through her own stubbornness, and suddenly the tears were there again as she realized how close to dying she had come through her own foolish pride.

"I never meant to cause you pain, Aerin," she began, her voice low and thick with her guilt and tears. "I don't have any excuse for being so prideful and thoughtless."

His gaze darkened even more and she saw a muscle twitching in his cheek, as if he was gritting his teeth to hold back angry words. She forced herself to meet his gaze and waited for him to rage, realizing with an ache in her heart that he had lost one woman he loved and nearly lost her as well. That she had caused such pain in him made her tears continue to flow.

"You're damned lucky the Wardens knew what the darkspawn use on their arrows and had a counter-agent or you wouldn't be here to make your apologies," he said with such cool precision she shivered.

"You've every right to be furious," she whispered, trying to stop the endless flow of tears.

He moved then, quickly and decisively, to gather her into his arms, clutching her to him. His shoulders shook several times and she clung to him, whispering, "I love you," over and over as his shoulders continued to shake and she felt dampness soaking into her nightdress.

"Don't do that again. Ever," came his muffled words and she let her fingers curl through his hair, holding him close, her voice softly soothing as she promised.

She fell asleep still cradled in his arms and woke up some time later to hear Ser Fletcher's excited voice shouting that it appeared as if an eclipse was occurring.

A shadow had fallen across the sun.

**A/N:** _Thank you, Lisa, for your beta-goodness and infinite wisdom!_  
><em>My deepest thanks to those of you reading, lurking, following, favoriting, and reviewing. I appreciate it so much.<em>  
><em>Many ancient cultures considered an eclipse to signal the end of days. <em>


	17. Ashes on the Moon

**A/N: **_Thank you, Lisa, for your comma sense, your assistance and your wonderfulness.  
>Thank you to all who are reading this tale. Your encouragement and reviews are very much appreciated!<em>

**Ashes on the Moon**

_When the war with the Great Serpent finally ended so many had perished that their pyres blackened the sky for days, sending large plumes of acrid smoke into the heavens. Mother Earth and Father Sky wept to see the death of so many of their children, all of them brought about by the Great Serpent's pride and lust for power. Would others do the same, they asked themselves. _

_Determined that man would never forget the terrible sacrifices made during the war, nor the reason for the rise of the Great Serpent, Father Sky allowed the ashes to collect into seas that soon covered the once pristine, white valleys of the moon. _

"_Look to the heavens and see what pride hath wrought," he proclaimed and man looked, mourned and prayed that such wars would never again condemn mankind. _

_Even now, when the moon dances in the night sky, one can see the dark seas on the moon, said to be the ashes of the fallen. If only such a sight would guide us away from future wars.***__**From a book entitled: Tales of the Great Serpent, written by Devris Alamarrian, First Chieftain of the Alamarri tribe.**_

**~~~oOo~~~**

Laria glanced up and smiled at the man who was ignoring his correspondence in favor of looking at her, illuminated by a happily crackling fire and the bright lamp glowing on his desk.

"You keep staring at me, Aerin. Have I a smudge on my nose?" she asked, setting her book aside.

"I didn't want to embarrass you by calling it to your attention, but now that you have mentioned it…" he replied, standing and coming to her with long-legged grace and tapping the side of her nose with a finger. She swatted it away. He caught her hand and brought it to his lips.

"And a lovely nose it is," he added, releasing her hand in favor of delivering a kiss to the tip of her nose. "Despite the smudge of soot on it."

She reached up and rubbed at her nose only to have him laugh. She stood up with a sigh. "I can't believe I fell for that obvious ploy."

With a quick move, Aerin sat back down, pulling her onto his lap, his lips plucking gently at her neck. She shivered, her hands instinctively curling into his hair as she pulled him closer. "I prove so great a distraction you fail to see such trickery," came his muffled reply. His lips danced across her jaw to meet hers in a searing kiss.

"Your ego grows with each passing hour," she murmured against his lips.

"Fanned by your endless pursuit of me, my lady hawk," he protested.

She pushed him away with another laugh. "Then I shall stop immediately, my wolf, lest I cause you undue growing pains."

He gave a low, rumbling laugh. "I believe I was just beaten at my own game."

Her heart full, she took his face in her hands and kissed him deeply and thoroughly. "Even the best are prone to the odd whims of fate."

So saying, she stood and moved away, reaching for her cloak. "And on that note, it's time for me to return to Elder Miriam's," she added, unable to keep the reluctance from her voice.

He was behind her immediately, helping her with her cloak, his fingers light in her hair as he moved it aside and placed a soft kiss on the nape of her neck. She sighed, her reluctance to leave growing stronger. Every evening they managed to be together made it more difficult for them to separate, yet she couldn't bring herself to stay away. On the rare night when she did, he found a reason to visit her at Elder Miriam's small cottage and they would step out under the star-infused night, holding each other and pretending that the inevitability of war wasn't pressing relentlessly at their backs.

He turned her around and pulled her close, his lips finding her in a long, probing kiss that left them both short of breath, as if he had known her thoughts and sought to dispel them. She grazed his cheeks with her fingertips and sighed. "I would wish for a night of our own," she whispered.

"As would I, my lovely hawk." His lips sought hers again, lingering with gentle grace. She was just about to concede defeat and sneak into his room when he stepped back. "Best you leave now, my lady, or I _will_ take you prisoner."

She snapped her fingers and Conlaoch, who had been napping near her chair, stood, shaking from tail to snout before trotting to his master with a soulful look. "Don't you start, Con," she laughed, moving to the door.

"Breakfast tomorrow morning?" she asked as she made her way out.

"I'll be there. Unless you mean to serve me in bed?" he asked hopefully.

"Only if you promise Ser Fletcher will be there. Can you imagine the blushes?"

Moments later, she quietly entered Elder Miriam's house. Bethany was dozing by the fire, a blanket draped over her. Laria gave her sister's shoulder a gentle shake. "Get to bed, Bethany, there's no need to wait up for me," she scolded in a hushed voice.

"I can't sleep anyway, not with Carver being in Ostagar in Maker knows what kind of trouble."

Laria's mouth formed around a quick platitude and she sighed it away. Instead, she rested the back of her hand against her sister's cheek. "I'm worried too, but he is clever and quick, Bethy. He'd want us to have faith in him."

"I do," her younger sister said, the plaintive notes catching on a small sob. "I just miss him," she mumbled and Laria felt the warmth of Bethany's tears against her hand.

Dropping down to her knees, Laria continued to offer solace but the words were as hollow as a marsh reed and they both knew it. Finally, Bethany sniffed loudly and allowed herself to be coaxed to their small bedroom where they shared a narrow pallet. Sleep came slowly and not without more tears on Bethany's part.

Laria had hoped that their mother would convince Bethany that she needed to eat, to keep her strength up, but the woman seemed locked in her own misery, unable to rise above it long enough to see how pale and thin Bethany was becoming. Nothing Laria said seemed to help and another knot of worry was added to the growing weight inside her.

The following morning she went to the message board in the town square and scanned it for any new postings. A long list of wounded and dead from the latest battles in Ostagar had taken a prominent spot on the board and her eyes traveled quickly down the list. Each time a new list was posted, it seemed there were more names on it than the previous one. The news, usually a week old, did nothing to alleviate the growing unrest in Lothering.

Laria's breath caught in her throat as she read the list. Two of Widow Winona's boys had died and four of the Mawbry cousins had been wounded, as had Pelham's son. Her anxiety continued to grow, gnawing like rats at her resolve to maintain her calm. Villages from around Ferelden had lost men in the most recent battles, which were obviously becoming more numerous and bloodier with each passing day.

She felt a firm hand cup her elbow and she was grateful for the steadying influence. "How long will it be before they start blaming mages for the darkspawn war?" she asked quietly, allowing herself to briefly lean against Aerin.

"I'll make sure she's kept out of harm's way, Lark."

Her anxiety gave way to an unexpected flare of anger. "You can't guarantee her safety! This waiting and wondering, holding each breath to make sure it's safe to release it! Maker's mercy, Aerin, I hate feeling so completely helpless," she finished with a hiss of impatience.

She stared into his dark eyes, waiting for some reassurance but he shook his head, looking grim and equally impatient. "Would you rather we all run about, waving our arms and shouting that our death is nigh?"

"I – no, of course not, but this waiting for some word and watching Bethany starve herself isn't the answer either!"

His grip on her elbow tightened and he pulled her across the square and into the stables where Éibhear, Mab and Aeolis were docilely waiting for attention. Ensuring they were alone, Aerin kissed her, a fierce, quick kiss that robbed her of both breath and anger.

"I know how difficult this is, Lark, but we'll make it through. It's difficult for everyone and not made any easier by the damnable waiting for the other boot to drop. But falling apart and shouting your frustration for the entire town to hear won't help.

"Perhaps Bethany, and you, will benefit from a ride in the country. We can't go too far out of town, granted, but far enough away from the constant reminder of how many people are absent from Lothering."

Taking a steadying breath, she nodded, her sense of equilibrium restored by his calming presence. "Your common sense is as helpful as it is annoying," she remarked around a brief smile.

With a flourishing bow, Aerin replied, "It is ever my goal to serve, my lady hawk."

With Con running alongside Mab, the three rode out to the bend in the river two hours later. Laria laid out a picnic lunch comprised of the last of the smoked ham and fresh berries picked that morning from the chantry garden. Con chased butterflies, barking with fearsome ardor at the brightly painted insects, and the warm sun brought about a sense of normalcy for all of them.

Aerin kicked off his boots and pulled his socks off, hopping on first one foot and then the other as he did so, his hair gleaming darkly and highlighted with gold strands in the bright sunshine. Laria's heart expanded as she watched him teasing Bethany to join him as he waded into the shallow water near the bank.

Laria dozed off, stretched out on the blanket and warmed by the heat of the day, lulled by the low hum of bees and her sister's unrestrained laughter.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Throughout the next two weeks reports of continued skirmishes with the darkspawn filtered back to Lothering and the lists of dead and wounded continued to become longer. The army gathering at Ostagar grew as various arls and banns sent additional troops, temporarily swelling the population of Lothering as they camped overnight on the village green before continuing on their way south.

As more men marched through, more farmers returned to their fields, their confidence bolstered by the number of soldiers in the area and a lack of darkspawn reports. Laria desperately wanted to return to her farm but she stayed in town with her mother and Bethany, trying to keep busy and not fret about their dwindling supply of money. Soon they wouldn't have enough for seed of any kind, and the time for planting a large crop that would sustain them had passed.

Just as the cool mornings were giving way to the persistent heat of summer, Duncan arrived in town with six Wardens and a new recruit. The recruit was a mage, a fierce young woman from the Circle of Magi. When they stopped in to pay their respects to the family, her mother gave a startled cry upon hearing the name of the recruit. She turned to Laria with a pleased smile and explained that the recruit, Adelaide Amell, was a cousin of sorts. After that, Bethany spent several hours talking with her as Laria spoke with Duncan and invited them to stay for supper. He contributed a brace of rabbits, to Elder Miriam's delight.

Outside, away from the house, Duncan began to speak, his voice calm and oddly reassuring, for all that his news was grim. He exuded a quiet confidence of manner that put her own fears at ease, even if only temporarily.

"My men have mapped most of those tunnels, Laria, and there can be no doubt they were built, in part, by the 'spawn. They lead to various other tunnels in the Deep Roads and, more importantly, to Ostagar. My men are sealing them off now, but we can't have any way of knowing how many more of them there are in the vicinity. We have recommended the evacuation of Lothering and the surrounding farms."

Her world tipped and darkened as her heart forgot to beat. "It is truly that bad?"

"I believe, without doubt, that we are entering a Blight, Laria. The situation is truly that dire and will only worsen in the coming months. To that end I have sent for the Wardens of Orlais and the Free Marches to join us. Letters have been sent to the other Wardens as well."

"Will they get here in time?" she forced herself to ask, even though she knew he couldn't possibly answer the question with any degree of assurance.

"Maker willing."

"And the army in Ostagar?"

Duncan met her gaze squarely. "They are as prepared as any such army can be, but I will not lie. The darkspawn look to outnumber us ten to one and those numbers grow. Without assistance, our losses will continue to mount with each battle. I am sorry, Laria."

Somehow, she managed to find her voice. "Thank you for your honest assessment, Duncan. I would appreciate it if you would not share it with Mother and Bethany."

He bowed, arms crossed in Andraste's blessing. "You have my word."

The following morning Duncan and his men departed after a long meeting with Revered Mother Glynis, Constable Grant and Aerin. She watched the Wardens until they were just a small dot on the horizon, mentally arming herself for the fight she would have with her family when she announced her intention to evacuate them north.

She went directly to the chantry's library and looked at the large map adorning one wall. There were no friends in Ferelden other than those in Lothering and the only family she knew of, besides the newly discovered cousin Adelaide, was in Kirkwall. They hadn't the money to pay for passage to Kirkwall and, in fact, hadn't enough to get to Denerim.

"We'll manage," Aerin said quietly, coming to stand beside her, as if he knew her dark thoughts. "I was ordered to take a group north to Amaranthine but I believe I have convinced Mother Glynis that Rowan's Reach, in the Bannorn, is a better destination as there are a group of like-minded templars there, among other Reformationists."

An ache formed in her chest, as if someone had reached in and squeezed her heart and she found it impossible to breathe. "When will you be leaving?" she finally managed, ashamed of the quiver in her voice.

"_We_ are leaving at the end of the week, provided your mother and sister will be ready."

The hand that was squeezing her heart relinquished it and she felt a rush of hope flow into her, but still she refused to believe. "We haven't any money for the journey, Aerin, and we won't accept charity, not that anyone around here has coin to spare."

"Charity? I hardly think I deserve that, Lark. We are family, and became so the moment you agreed to marry me. Besides, you'll earn your way by helping with the youngsters and your mother can assist with the cooking. Naturally, Bethany's healing will come in handy for all the blisters we'll amass along the way."

Hope began to push past her fears. "I'm sorry, Aerin, you're right. Thank you," she said, feeling the words inadequate.

"If you really want to thank me, share the sunrise with me tomorrow morning. Just you and I and no talk of blights or war or any of it," Aerin replied with quiet intensity.

"In the chantry garden?"

"Maker, no! Away from the chantry. Near the windmill."

"I'll be there," she promised.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Morning announced itself with a triumphant splash of salmon and tangerine streaking across a sky that Aerin called celestial blue. They stood together to watch the sun rising reverently in the heavens. The air was fresh and sweet with the heady fragrance of sun-ripened plums and newly bloomed roses and the wind skipped gracefully along the treetops.

It was a perfect summer morning and that they had shared it made it all the more memorable. Aerin found a moment's peace in the woman beside him, his duties fading into the background as they shared a brief respite. They stood, arm in arm, for long, silent moments, content.

As they continued to take in the morning, a thin wisp of dark smoke rose to the northeast, staining the blue sky and suddenly it felt darker, as if a shadow had passed in front of the sun.

"It's early in the season to be burning off a field," Laria said and there was a note of alarm in her voice that was echoed in his thoughts.

"The Stackhope farm is in that direction isn't it?"

An hour later word made it to town and the news traveled swiftly from villager to villager. The Stackhopes had been killed, all except the youngest son, Nedric, who'd hidden underneath his kitchen table while a giant with white hair savaged the young boy's family. The Qunari had set the barn on fire but whether on purpose or accidentally wasn't known.

Even the most battle-hardened men had emptied their stomach at the carnage, and Aerin, brought to the scene by Constable Grant, was hard-pressed not to kill the Qunari responsible on the spot.

When questioned as to why he would kill an entire family, the giant said only that he had been sent to search for an answer. "An answer? An answer to what?" Aerin had thundered, his calm deserting him in the face of the massacre.

"A question," replied the man, his voice devoid of inflection.

"And that question would be what?" Aerin demanded furiously. His fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword. "What manner of beast slaughters innocents?"

"Parshaara!" the Qunari cried, a note of impatience and something else Aerin couldn't identify coloring the previously flat voice. "I am Sten of the Beresaad and I murdered this family. That is all you need to know."

The huge man, with his violet eyes and bronzed skin, stood in stony silence after his statement, looking beyond Aerin. He had waited docilely for the templars and had admitted his guilt without hesitation. When asked why he had burned the barn down, he had looked faintly aggrieved. "That was not my intent." There had been no pride in his voice, but no remorse either.

As if the darkspawn weren't enough to keep the entire town on edge, now they had to contend with a possible Qunari incursion, Aerin reflected grimly, ordering the guards to transport the Qunari to Lothering. Maron bound the Qunari's hands with a length of rope and tied the lead to his horse's pommel. Glancing at the others gathered, Aerin realized he wasn't the only one who would be happier killing the Qunari.

"Becker and Arnholm, sweep the area to see if he had any traveling companions. We don't want another attack," he ordered brusquely and then took a calming breath. Losing his temper would serve no purpose, but he felt anger and frustration tremble through him.

Nedric Stackhope, wide-eyed and solemn, slipped his small, cold hand into Aerin's and refused to relinquish it until Aerin hoisted him onto Éibhear's broad back and climbed up behind him.

Elder Miriam was waiting for him in the stables, her face drawn and aged by the news. Beside her, Bethany and Laria offered their condolences to the young boy and he finally left Aerin's side, persuaded by Bethany's sweet voice and kind smile. She led the young boy to Miriam's overcrowded cottage without a backward glance.

Another orphan of the war, adding to a growing number, Aerin thought bleakly, surprised by the deep emotions that were playing havoc with his usual calm. His eyes sought out Laria. She moved to his side, quietly slipping her arm around his waist, her touch a balm to his nerves.

At Revered Mother Glynis's orders, the Qunari was locked in a cage outside, one of the cells used for prisoners that lined the western edge of the town square and which were rarely used, save as an example to the town. Normally Grant would have imposed sentence but he had willingly relinquished his authority to the chantry.

The woman, her face serene, bestowed blessings on the crowd that gathered around the cage to mock the prisoner and it was only then that Aerin understood why she had not just quietly hung the man or locked him in one of the cells located in the basement. The townspeople needed to vent their ire, to feel as though they had some say in their lives during a time when there was little any of them could do to change their fate.

The following morning, after a sleepless night, Aerin sat as his desk, scratching out a supply list for his trek north with the refugees. He was interrupted by a brisk tap on his door and he looked up expectantly when he called for whoever it was to enter. He expected one of his men, although he hoped it would be Laria.

Two men entered, both in the parade uniform of the Templar Order, both square jawed and grim. "Knight-Captain Bryant Sinclair?"

Standing slowly, mildly irritated by the interruption, he bowed formally. "I am. Who might you be?"

"I'm Knight-Lieutenant Andrew Ford and this is Ser Boulton. We are here at the behest of the Grand Cleric," the taller of the two announced coolly. Aerin's heart lurched but he forced his smile to radiate confidence.

"Indeed? I'm flattered that Her Grace would notice one of her templars during these trying times," he said with studied nonchalance as he waved the men into seats. He was grateful when they sat, his legs feeling as though his muscles and bones had been supplanted by water. "What does she want of me?"

"I cannot say, Ser Bryant. We have orders to escort you to Denerim immediately."

Aerin forced himself to smile apologetically, placing his hands lightly on his desk in a pose he hoped conveyed regret and determination. "That's not possible. I am to guide a group of widows and orphans north to Rowan's Reach by week's end. Unless you can assure me I can ride there and return in five days I don't see how I can accomplish both."

The two men conferred briefly and Ser Boulton spoke up, his young voice surprisingly deep and confident. "I will take your place, Ser Bryant. I am quite familiar with the Bannorn and know of that village."

Mouth dry, Aerin managed a quick nod, realizing he had no other option. Even Glynis couldn't countermand the Grand Cleric and to have her try would only arouse suspicions as to why he was reluctant. While rare to request a particular templar, it was not unheard of. He had been assigned to Denerim for years, he knew the Grand Cleric. It could be as simple as her desire to discuss his decision to marry. That thought rang hollow in his head as he couldn't imagine the Grand Cleric seeking him out for that, having already approved his request. Had she learned of his commitment to the Reformationists? No matter the reason, he had no choice but to obey the order that had been dressed up as a request.

"I will need time to reassign tasks and make preparations," he said, forcing his mind to remain calm when it was desperately rearranging plans.

"Of course, Ser Bryant. First light?"

"Yes."

As soon as they were gone, Bryant shot out of his chair, pacing the room. The Hawkes could follow him to Denerim and once there, they could travel to the Bannorn together. It would be easy enough to get word of their whereabouts to Carver. But why had the Grand Cleric called him to Denerim at such a time? It didn't matter, he couldn't disobey the request without causing undue scrutiny.

He packed quickly and, after a brief meeting with Revered Mother Glynis, went to Elder Miriam, explaining the situation. She nodded and gave him a rusty iron key. "There's a small room inside the windmill. I keep emergency supplies there. I think if you put your mind to it, you can make it cozy enough for one night," she remarked with a wink.

He hugged her before leaving. He spent the remainder of the afternoon setting the room to rights and then went in search of Laria. She was, surprisingly, seated in a pew at the back of the chantry, her lips moving in silent prayer. He had never known her to be deeply religious and his heart stuttered to see her head bent in supplication, her brown curls caressing her cheeks in an image of devotion. Maker, he loved her above all others and the thought of leaving her behind made him long to gather her in his arms and flee as far and as fast as he could, to take her to a place where they could celebrate their love, not count the number of friends they'd lost to the darkspawn war.

She already knew, of course. The town thrived on gossip and it would have been too much to hope he would be able to break the news to her. He slid into the pew beside her and knelt, not to pray but to bask in her strength because no matter what she and the others thought, he wasn't nearly as strong without her as he was with her.

She reached out and rested her hand on his arm and his own moved to it, wrapping around and squeezing, not in reassurance but to be reassured. She nodded once and then stood, leading them outside.

"Stay with me tonight," he said without preamble. He quickly explained where and how he had come by the room. She leaned into him and he felt her tremble. "It will work itself out, Lark. I have a plan, don't worry," he soothed and the words helped him as much as they helped her.

**~~~oOo~~~**

She crept out of Miriam's as soon as the sun had settled behind the hills, leaving only a halo of gold in the western sky. She hurried along the hedgerows and then ducked behind the windmill, glancing around her to see if anyone was watching. She stopped, frowning, her breath catching as she saw Sister Leliana speaking with the two templars, her manner almost furtive. Not, Laria thought with an unhappy huff of laughter, that she wasn't behaving in a similar fashion.

She tapped on the door and Aerin opened it, pulling her inside and into his arms. Their lips met as she wound her arms around him, bringing him closer still and then it was a race to strip out of their clothes. They tumbled onto the pallet, their lovemaking sharp and rushed, an edge of desperation to it. Tears trembled on her lashes and she pushed them resolutely away.

Later, entwined and drowsy, they discussed their plans. "I thought to have you follow me to Denerim but it would be safer for you to go with the group as originally planned."

"And what of Bethany? Having her travel in the company of a strange templar hardly sounds like a wise plan," Laria argued, sitting up.

"The alternative is to have three females travel the roads unaccompanied. Laria, you've seen how desperate times are becoming. You could be set upon by any number of bandits or worse. That's no good either."

"Then we can wait here until you return. I heard that several of the templars and sisters and brothers have decided to stay to help those coming from the south. And the army will surely pass this way if the darkspawn move north. We can travel with them should it come to that."

She knew, from his expression, that her stubbornness was frustrating him and she quietly rose, pulling her breeches and tunic on before stepping outside into the cool night air.

The moon had risen, hanging as bright and heavy as a large pearl in the sky. She glanced up at it, frowning at the patches of darkness on its surface, as if clouds were marring a sea of white. It seemed ominous, somehow, and she shivered, wondering at its portent.

"My lady hawk, must we spend our last evening together for some time locked in combat?" Aerin asked, coming to stand beside her.

She turned and wrapped her arms around him, breathing him in. They were both strong enough to get through the coming weeks, she believed that without reservation. Leaning back, she looked up at him as he stood awash in the moon's loving light.

"No, Aerin, just accept that I am doing what I think best," she whispered, smiling. "I will be here when you return and we can go north together. I have faith in us."

"I have every confidence in us, Laria, it's the rest of the world I have come to mistrust."

She smiled and rose on her tiptoes to plant a light kiss on his lips. His arms tightened and he swept her off her feet, carrying her back into the small room, kicking the door shut behind him.

"So be it," he said as he lowered her onto the rush mat, his hands already divesting her of her shirt and pants.

They made love slowly, savoring each other, their lips and fingers and rhythm in perfect symphony with the other. The low light of the candle painted Aerin's body in dark gold tones and she spent long moments memorizing each curve, each dip and plane, where muscle and sinew and bone had been honed and hardened by years of fighting. And when she climaxed, his name fell from her lips like a prayer of salvation, and in her heart he _was_ her salvation.

In the morning, she awoke to find him dressing. "I love you, ser wolf, lest you were in doubt."

"And I love you, my lady hawk. Never was I happier than the day I trespassed onto your farm."

She rose, wearing nothing but a smile, her arms winding around his back as she pressed herself close. "Do not forget that my heart is with you, always, dear wolf."

"And mine with you, Lark," he whispered, dropping kisses along her neck and back up to find her lips in a deep, breathless kiss that seemed to go on and on, making her heart expand and filling her with a sense of contentment, to her surprise.

An hour later she stood on the road, watching Aerin and Éibhear until they were only a memory. In her hand she held his templar's ring and in her heart she held his promise that he would come back.

Three days later, Éibhear returned, riderless.

It was the same day they discovered Bethany had run away, leaving behind a hastily scrawled note that she had gone to Ostagar to find Carver and bring him home.


	18. Stars Tumbling from a Burning Sky

**Stars Tumbling from a Burning Sky**

_Father Sky and Mother Earth warred against the Great Serpent for many centuries, and, when all seemed lost, they placed their hopes and dreams in the stars. Each night, the stars shone down upon their children, and the children believed._

_But, as time passed, the children of Father Sky and Mother Earth forgot the Great Serpent and the war that was fought on their behalf. They no longer saw hopes or dreams in the stars; they saw only points of light that illuminated the darkness._

_It is said that, in the time of the next great upheaval, the stars will tumble from a burning sky and only those who truly believe will find their way again_. **From a book of** **Chasind Folktales*****

Laria closed Aerin's door quietly behind her, embarrassed to find Maron and Fletcher, exiting their shared room, watching her as she left. Neither of them said anything, giving her the illusion that nobody knew she'd spent the night there, as they lowered their heads and moved away. She slipped quietly out of the chantry, grateful for their kindness.

She had gone there the previous evening, feeling so anxious and lonely that she'd been unable to sleep. She had curled up on Aerin's bed, clutching his pillow, missing him so intensely that she felt physically ill, but the emotions slowly uncoiled until she had drifted into a broken sleep.

As she crossed the village green her eyes automatically went to the cell, a large shadow reminding her of the man inside it. Early morning light softened the harsh planes of the giant's face, and Laria moved to the cage, eyeing the Qunari within. His stoic expression didn't alter at her presence, his eyes staring into the distance. He had been whispering in a foreign language that had ended abruptly at her approach and she thought it might have been a prayer because his look had softened somehow.

"You will find no answers here, if that is what you seek. Nor will I entertain you," the Qunari stated in a haughty rumble.

"I seek neither," she replied, but that was a lie. She couldn't fathom how someone could kill so relentlessly, without pity or remorse, most especially not the young children. The Stackhopes had had six children, four of whom were under ten, and now they were all gone, except young Ned, who had been generously taken in by the Barlins.

She had thought to offer him a kind word, but as she stood looking at his impassive face, she found she couldn't, that no such words came to her. What he had done was beyond evil and she couldn't imagine any justification for it. She turned away, continuing towards Elder Miriam's when her attention was caught by the sound of hooves striking the ground. She moved across the green, stumbling to a stop, her legs refusing to carry her another step as she saw the riderless horse. Éibhear! Her mind stumbled on the knowledge, unable to formulate reasons for his appearance without Aerin.

Ser Fletcher, standing beside the Chanter's Board, let out a sharp whistle and the horse, wild-eyed and sweat-soaked, came to a shuddering stop in front of him. Laria silently screamed at her legs to move and she ran, her stride jerky, heart hammering painfully. She reached out to grab the reins, her mind chaotic. It couldn't be Aerin's horse. He was on his way to Denerim and he was much too accomplished a rider to have been tossed off his horse.

The reins and Éibhear's mane was stiff from dried blood. As Laria stood holding the strips of leather, she felt as if she was made of spun glass and the least bit of emotion would shatter her. Distantly she heard Maron yelling and was faintly aware of movement, but couldn't tear her eyes away from the bloody reins in her hand. Her mind was sluggish, as if she was just waking after a long slumber.

Gradually, she became aware of Maron's composed voice, explaining something to her with the studied patience of a parent talking to a child. "Fetch Bethany while I saddle our horses," he said, his words slow and without inflection.

Her somnambulism slowly dissolved like a mist caught in the morning sun. She blinked several times, turning her head to the young templar. With a nod, she reluctantly handed the reins to him, shivering, feeling bereft without their weight resting in her palm.

"Now, Laria!" he commanded, his voice gaining urgency as she stumbled forward and began to run for Elder Miriam's small cottage.

Moments lost searching for Bethany and finding nothing made Laria's voice cold and impatient when she spoke to her mother. "Where is Bethany?" She reached out, shaking her mother's shoulders gently. "Did you hear me, Mother? Where is Beth?"

Raising a grief-stricken face, her mother shook her head from side to side, tears sliding down her cheeks like raindrops on a windowpane. How had her mother learned about Aerin's horse so quickly? Why was she crying? What was she mumbling about Bethy being gone? Had the world gone mad? She shook her mother again, angry at the woman for refusing to answer.

"Where's Bethany?" she yelled furiously, her world coming into sudden and sharp relief.

"This is your fault!" her mother shrilled bitterly, her voice catching on a sob. She raised a clenched fist and Laria saw the curled edges of vellum in it. Her heart jumped nervously in her chest, refusing to stay still. She pried the vellum from her mother's hand and read it once, twice, three times, trying to make sense of it.

"_I can't leave without Carver. It's like a piece of me has been cut away. I've gone to fetch him and we'll meet you in Rowan's Reach. Don't worry, Lark, I know what I'm doing_."

Her world fractured and some part of her empathized with Bethany because she felt as if strips of her were being cut away, as if one misstep would rip her in half and yet she already felt torn and shredded.

Her mother grabbed her shoulders, digging fingers into her skin and Laria winced. As sharp as talons, they pierced her flesh, and yet the pain grounded her, forcing her dreamlike state to dissipate completely.

"You go and bring her back! Do you hear me? Carver should never have gone to Ostagar and we all know it! You should never have let him take your place. You promised your father!"

Words filled her head, swirling embers caught in a downdraft, flickering and burning hotly, but she didn't speak; the tight, scalding sensation of tears held in check prevented her from doing so. Instead, she twisted out of her mother's grasp and hurried to her room, frantically changing into her armor. Con came up to her, his soulful brown eyes questioning.

"You stay and take care of things, Con. I'm trusting you," she commanded, allowing herself to bury her fingers in his silky fur. "Please, boy," she whispered, her voice catching as her emotions slid closer to the surface. Purposefully, she pushed them down until she couldn't feel the stinging pain or the sharp edge of panic. Con licked her hand, brushing against her leg in a gesture that made her eyes sting with unshed tears.

She grabbed her shield and sheathed her sword before strapping them into place, fingers trembling with rage and fear, trying to close off the terrible pain that felt like finely honed blades stabbing into her.

As soon as she stepped outside, she heard voices raised in anger and suspicion as Ser Boulton was questioned by Maron and the other templars, their words falling into silence when they saw her moving towards them.

"Laria? What is it?" Ser Fletcher asked quietly.

Her voice sounded odd as she spoke, cool and detached, startling her because inside she was burning with rage that Bethany had disappeared when she was needed, furious at her sister for leaving Laria to choose between her family and Aerin.

And yet, there was no choice at all, not really. Her choice had been made for her when she was just a child and no matter how much she wanted to do otherwise, she knew what she had to do, what her blood and bone told her, even as her mother's hateful accusations pounded a steady rhythm of guilt in her head.

"Bethany ran away, heading for Ostagar. I'm leaving immediately."

A stunned silence fell and Laria felt every pair of eyes on her. She felt raw and exposed, resisting the urge to flinch and again pushed back at her emotions until she was numb, avoiding Maron's shocked gaze. Finally, he began to speak.

"Fletcher, take Aeolis and ride with her. Don't worry, Laria, we'll find Bryant and by this time tomorrow we'll all be laughing about it!" Maron said with feigned heartiness.

How could she tell him that she wouldn't be back? That she would travel on to Ostagar and take her brother's place in the militia? Her words faded into nothing more than a nod and, before she had time to question her choice, she was galloping out of town along the southern viaduct of the Imperial Highway, the river and farmland below passing in an unholy blur of barren fields and abandoned farmhouses.

With brutal intensity, she kept her thoughts focused on finding any trail Bethany might have left behind. Fletcher tried to start a conversation when they stopped to talk to a small band of refugees heading north. She shook her head at him, refusing to meet his eyes before she batted his words away. "Not now," she muttered, turning her attention to the refugees.

"Oh, aye, said she had been called to serve in the army. Right pretty lass. She hitched a ride with a merchant," the apparent leader said, pointing south.

Just before sunset, when both riders and their mounts were fighting exhaustion, they came across the merchant and Bethany setting up camp.

Laria found herself enveloped in her sister's arms and hot tears scorched her neck as Bethany fell upon her, crying. It took every bit of her willpower not to fling her sister aside, to scream at her for her thoughtlessness. The anguish rose in her, threatening to choke her, and her body trembled from the effort to restrain herself.

"You and Fletcher need to return home tonight. Mother is beside herself with worry," she finally managed, her voice sharp and cold. She turned to the young templar whose face displayed his fear and concerns.

"Tell Aerin I'll be back shortly, and warn him that he's in for a scolding for scaring me so," she added with a smile, trying to instill conviction into her tone but her voice rang hollow, mirroring her smile.

"He'll kill me if you aren't there to greet him, Laria. You know how he is," Fletcher answered plaintively, his face creasing into an unhappy frown.

A sob, desperate to escape, made her voice crack as she tucked it away. "Then I'll just have to be there before him, won't I? Now go, quickly. The moon should rise early tonight."

She mounted and continued on, unable to even glance back to see if Fletcher and Bethany had started off for Lothering. She had to believe they would get home safely, that Bethany would understand why she was so curt, that her anger would fade in time, because if she allowed her mind to go in any other direction it would fracture. Instead, she kept her thoughts and emotions tightly focused as she rode on.

Two hours later, just as the moon disappeared behind a wall of advancing clouds, she stopped for the night. After seeing to Mab, she sank down on a tuft of marsh grass and the sobs, held so long at bay, broke over her, rising like the wind announcing an oncoming storm.

"He isn't dead! I would know it if he was, I would feel it!" she cried desperately, furiously pounding her chest. "I would feel it here!" Her words fell into the darkness, bleak and unanswered. She huddled under her cloak, waiting miserably for the dawn, doubt skulking in the shadows for the least sign of encouragement. Finally, sleep no more than a wish, she rose, saddled Mab and rode on.

As soon as she spied the tall white towers of Ostagar, Laria dismounted and untied her pack. She leaned forward, hand resting lightly on Mab's muzzle and whispered gentle words to her. Bringing a horse into a camp of soldiers was asking for the horse to be confiscated and given to an officer, or become a meal or packhorse and Laria couldn't bear the thought of such a faithful, strong creature falling to any of those fates.

"Go home," she instructed quietly and Mab's ears twitched. She swatted Mab's rump and the horse cantered off the way they had just come. And much the way she talked herself into believing Aerin was all right, she told herself Mab would make it home safely. The two thoughts became a litany in her head, a prayer that repeated itself over and over until her mind was thankfully numb.

Her senses were assaulted by the smells, sounds and sights of Ostagar as she passed through the high, arching gates. The wind was sharp as it whistled through the pass that Ostagar straddled, and even though it was summer, a light dusting of snow capped the higher peaks of the surrounding hills. Far to the south she could see the pale silver mist that marked the beginning of the Korcari Wilds.

Men yelling, blacksmith hammers striking metal, banners snapping in the brisk wind and dogs barking made it impossible to hear her own thoughts and she was grateful for that. The smells clinging to the air made her stomach churn and for long moments she fought to keep from emptying its contents as sweat, rotting food, overused latrines and pine-fueled fires assailed her nose.

"Maker's arse! How many times do we need to remind you militia to wear your brigade's colors?" a soldier snapped at her and then studied her more carefully. "Who are you with?" he asked, the disdain softened only slightly.

"I – I'm …" she began, only to fumble to a stop as her tired mind sorted through information and found the answer. "Third Brigade, under Captain Varel," she added, trying to instill confidence into her voice.

"Through the main encampment, down the path to your right, near the Grey Wardens. Look for the green and brown banners."

Carver was polishing his armor when she wandered into the sea of tents, all bearing the green and brown colors of the 3rd Brigade. Her eyes filled and she was momentarily unable to speak around the lump of tears embedded in her throat. Blinking rapidly, she allowed herself a moment to take him in. His tanned face was clean shaven, his hair neatly trimmed, and, even polishing his armor, he exuded an air of quiet self-assurance. It took her three tries before she found her voice and called to him.

He was up in a flash, armor tossed aside to gleam a bright silver in the midday sun, and then he was shaking her and the world tilted and she couldn't quite make out what he was saying as all sound seemed to bleed away, taking the sun with it.

She awoke to a circle of inquisitive gazes and a pair of familiar blue eyes. "Sister," Carver warned, cautiously placing a hand on her shoulder to pin her in place. She was on a cot, in the middle of an open space, and framing the people bent over her was a mocking blue sky.

"All right, men, get back to work!" a gruff voice barked and the circle of people fell back, all except Carver, who remained, his hand oddly comforting as it rested on her shoulder.

A face floated above her and a grey-haired man, his jaw chiseled and eyes grim, stared down at her. "A bad time for a family visit," he commented dryly. "The gates are locked in preparation for tonight's battle. I suggest you seek out Revered Mother Valencia and offer assistance in tending the wounded."

A protest formed and she struggled to sit up. Carver moved his hand to help her and she swung her legs over the edge of the cot, feeling faintly nauseous as the scene before her swam in and out of focus. He gave her a quick shake of his head and she realized that to try and take his place now was futile and would only serve to shame him.

She was too late to save him. Too late to save Aerin. The thoughts beat a sharp tattoo in her brain, refusing to be silent, and her sense of having lost everything was like a blow to the gut.

"Thank you, Captain Varel," Carver finally commented.

Laria heard herself protesting, years of being the protector not dying easily. "I'm a warrior. I've trained my entire life, Captain. I would prefer to fight beside my brother."

Sharp eyes studied her and the man gave a brief nod. "Carver, take her over to the quartermaster. She'll need potions and poultices. And get her something to eat, she looks half-starved."

As soon as she and Carver were alone, she began to explain her presence, words tripping over each other like water tumbling over rocks. His reassurances made her laugh bitterly. They had somehow switched roles and she felt young and rebellious in the face of his steadfast support. Was this how he had felt whenever she'd dictated a course of action? Maker, no wonder he'd hated her.

Dusk was approaching by the time they had the necessary supplies and Laria was grateful for the diversion that prevented her emotions from overwhelming her. Around her was the constant dull roar of voices and she caught bits and pieces of conversation, mostly about the upcoming battle. Her thoughts wandered off as she replayed the scene of Éibhear galloping into Lothering without Aerin.

"Maker, we have to find a way for you to get out of here. You and I can't both be here, Laria. Do you understand?"

She blinked, staring at her brother's hands as they gripped her upper arms, thinking that the pressure was painful and distracting. She ought to thank him, really. Her mind drifted off and she was thankful for that as well.

"Laria!" Carver snapped, shaking her again until her teeth bit down on her tongue. The pain was instant and intense.

"Stop it!" she snarled, pulling away from him. "You're hurting me!"

"Bloody oath, Laria, we're about to be used as darkspawn fodder! Have you heard a word I've said?" he exclaimed.

She nodded, trying desperately to focus on what he was saying.

"We need to get you out of here, do you understand? If something happens to us, there'll be nobody left to take care of Mother and Bethany."

"No, you go and I'll take your place," she argued. "Don't you see, Carver? I should have been here all along. All of this is my fault."

"Not this shit again!" he shouted angrily, pulling her further away from the encampment. "We talked about this before and I'm not bloody well doing it again! You're meant to be with Aerin, I'm meant to be here. You should have been out looking for him, not riding to my rescue.

"You should have ridden back with Bethy, not listened to Mother's demented ranting. She wasn't in her right mind, but you're so busy feeling sorry for yourself you can't see anything else. Now, come on, I know a way around the main gates."

His words were a cold slap in the face and for the first time since Éibhear had returned without Aerin, her mind felt clear and sharp, free of the dark mists. She nodded. "It's not that I don't think you're capable, Carver."

"Yeah, sure," he replied with a snort. "Besides, who listens to Mother when she's in one of her states? You never used to."

They had been climbing steadily since leaving the camp, and the outcropping where they stood overlooked the encampment and the valley floor. The first stars were shyly appearing in the night sky and the wind was rising. Carver, looking over her shoulder in the direction of the camp, let out an inarticulate cry. Turning, she took in the sight, mesmerized by the dreadful beauty of it.

Below her the encampment was awash in bright white lights as hundreds of torches and lamps glowed like a beacon of hope against the encroaching darkness. The valley appeared like a ribbon of river glimpsed at night, dark and mysterious. Across the valley, an angry red glow hung over the hills, as if the sky itself was on fire, thousands of flickering pinpoints of light threading down to the valley. From her vantage point, it looked like an endless snaking trail of stars tumbling from a burning sky.

An hour passed as they stood clutching at each other and watching the scene. It was obvious to them, as they stood on the promontory, that the darkspawn were an overwhelming force, far outnumbering the Ferelden armies. The army and darkspawn clashed, the sounds of battle ringing across the valley to be absorbed by the wooded hillsides, no more than a murmur by the time it reached them.

A tower's beacon was lit, casting the entire battlefield in a glorious white light, and hope surged in her as she saw more than half the army had been held in reserve. Moments later, her hope became horror as she saw the group, as if a single entity, turn and begin to retreat, leaving an outflanked and unprotected army at the mercy of the darkspawn, whose numbers seemed infinite.

"Move! Move!" Carver shouted suddenly, pulling her down the other side of the hill. In less than an hour Ostagar had fallen, not to the darkspawn but to betrayal. The image seemed to have etched itself into her brain and it was that image that fueled her strength and determination to get to Lothering as quickly as possible.

It took them two days … two days of little rest and even less food, their meals hardtack and water eaten on the run. They knew the remnants of the army would be streaming north along the Imperial Highway and they were determined to reach Lothering first, to evacuate north ahead of the horde of darkspawn that was surely hard on the heels of the army. And Carver had deserted the army, a crime punishable by death. She couldn't allow that to happen. She couldn't.

They entered Lothering late in the evening of the second day and Laria's first thought was to go to the chantry to see if Aerin had returned. "Get home and have Bethany and Mother packed and ready to leave by first light. Sooner if we can manage."

Carver, exhausted, still shocked by the events, nodded. "And food," he added, his stomach rumbling. It was odd to realize she was hungry, as well. Such an ordinary, mundane feeling after everything else she'd experienced.

It appeared as if most of the templars and chantry staff had already departed, but Sister Leliana, her face pale and sorrowful, greeted her.

"I am sorry, Laria, but the news is not good."

Her heart paused, feeling as though it was being squeezed. "What? Where is he?"

"We found the body of Knight-Lieutenant Ford but not that of Knight-Captain Bryant. I'm sorry, but with all that blood, I don't see how anyone could have survived. There were tracks all around, wolves and other scavengers…"

Laria stopped listening, her mind simply refusing to accept what the young sister said, refusing to believe that Aerin would leave her. Instead, she changed the subject. "Where's everyone else?"

"They went north two days ago, with Revered Mother Glynis and the refugees. If you hurry, you might be able to catch up with them. Ser Maron is here, as are half a dozen templars and initiates but we will be leaving soon. We promised to conduct a sweep of the surrounding area for any more refugees before we leave."

She stared at the redhead, suspicious but without being able to identify the reason. Finally she blurted out, "Why would _you_ go with the others to search for Aerin? Why are you even here? I saw you talking to Ford and Boulton. What did you say? What did you say to them?"

Blue eyes narrowed, the sister shook her head. "I know you're in shock, but lashing out at me won't help, Laria. I offered my services and they were accepted. I'm sorry for your loss, truly, but … "

Before she could say anything, Maron was there, his relief and astonishment at seeing her apparent in his greeting. He hugged her close and begged her to forgive him for not having better news.

Tears pooled, slipping down her cheeks in hot tracks. "Is there really no hope that he survived? Perhaps he was found by passersby? Other refugees? That's a main trade route, perhaps a merchant took him in and he's tucked away somewhere, mending?"

It was the pity in his gaze that made her realize he held no such hope. She nodded once, wiping at her tears. "I – I understand," she whispered. She turned to leave but instead made her way to Aerin's room.

The room was neat and tidy, just as she'd left it four days earlier. Four days? It seemed eternity and longer still since she'd spent that first night with him. She touched the rough woolen blanket, smoothing it carefully before walking to the armoire and pulling out a worn white cambric shirt and burying her face in it, breathing in Aerin's scent, trying to hang on to even a sliver of hope. With careful fingers she folded the shirt and took it with her, walking out of the chantry and across the green, ignoring the Qunari in his cage.

Con nearly knocked her off her feet when she entered the cottage, his wet kisses hiding the traces of her earlier tears. Her mother greeted her warmly but Laria found she had nothing to say to her, any words that formed dark and bitter. Instead, she ordered them all to meet at the stables in an hour; she would have Mett hitched to the ox cart and Mab saddled by then.

If she kept busy, she wouldn't have to examine the gaping hole in her chest where her heart had once resided. If she kept busy, she wouldn't have to look at the emptiness of her future.

Stricken, her mother blurted out, "I sold them."

"What?" Carver yelled in surprise. "Why would you do something so stupid?"

"Don't take that tone, Carver," her mother rebuked sharply.

"You mean to tell me that Mab made it back from Ostagar on her own and you rewarded her by selling her?" Laria asked, stunned.

"We needed money to get to Kirkwall."

"Kirkwall? Are you insane? Every zealot templar in the order wants to be assigned to Kirkwall because of their mistreatment of mages," Laria hissed. "Have you forgotten that Bethany is a mage?"

"I won't accept that tone from you, either. I know you've lost something, Laria, but that is hardly my fault. Our family is important in Kirkwall, the name Amell holds great sway. We'll be safe there."

Rage crashed over her like a tidal wave, washing away every other emotion. The years since her father's death, the years of stepping in to act as a mother to Bethany, rose up in her like a vengeful wraith.

"Carver, take Bethany and Elder Miriam out," Laria said, her voice a whisper of silk. "Hurry along," she added to Bethany with a calm smile.

As soon as the room emptied and she heard the quiet _click_ of the door shutting, she rounded on her mother, her voice cold and disdainful. "How dare you! How dare you suggest that none of this is your fault!

"How dare you suggest that what I lost is equivalent to a missing sock or hair ribbon! It's my heart that I've lost, my soul, and I don't even have the luxury of mourning Aerin, as you did Father!

"How dare you sit on your throne and make demands of me, of Carver, of Bethany when, had you been a mother of any consequence at all, we would not be in this predicament! You can't pick and choose when you want to be a parent, or when it's convenient to be. A parent is a lifelong commitment, _Mother_, and one you never made to any of us."

She moved closer to her mother, ignoring the woman's extreme pallor. She was beyond caring if her words hurt or not, if they were true or not, the pain in her chest nearly unbearable. Her voice lowered, cold as a winter wind, as she continued.

"And know this, _Mother_, believe this if you believe nothing else I've said. I am staying with the family for Bethany's sake. Were it not for her, I would leave you here to make your own way to safety and encourage Carver to do the same.

"Now, figure out what you're taking, because there will be no allowances made for you. Just this once you need to carry your own weight."

Turning, she moved away from her mother, but paused at the door to her room. Without turning she spoke quietly, her voice stark and devoid of warmth, "We leave at first light. _Do not_ keep us waiting."

The threat that if she was late she would be left alone went unspoken.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Her mother watched her furtively, afraid of her on some level, she could feel it in the words that went unsaid. Bethany tried to make peace between them but, as the miles slipped by, Laria hung on to her anger, realizing that it was the only thing that kept her moving at all. Every instinct, every need, was screaming at her to go in search of Aerin. She was terrified that he was wounded and alone, that he would die without knowing that she loved him enough to go in search of him.

Everyone else offered condolences but a niggling hope stayed alive, nurtured by his promise that they would spend their lives together. A small ember, fanned by the dreams of a life she had dared to reach for. Carver took the rear and she took the lead, as if their roles had never flipped and she felt the heavy weight of it on her shoulders, but it was a weight she had taken, not been forced to and she knew, without asking, that Carver would take it should she relinquish it.

They were attacked by darkspawn four hours north of Lothering. The tainted creatures swarmed out of the ground, voices twisted and dark as they growled at the group. Laria's fury kept her moving from one 'spawn to the next, blade blurring in the midday sun, her shield as deadly as her sword.

"Use every spell at your disposal, Beth!" she yelled at Bethany, who had not been trained as a battle mage but was struggling to be one. As the last darkspawn fell, Laria doubled over, gasping for breath, sweat flowing unabashedly. She felt a cool burst of magic around her, easing the scream of tired muscles. Flashing a grateful smile at Bethany, she righted herself and then tilted her head, listening.

The sounds of a skirmish were coming from just around a small hillock and she loped in that direction, waving the others to stay put. Carver moved up beside her and together they rounded the hillock to discover a templar and soldier fighting a large group of darkspawn. Her heart leapt with joy and then plummeted as she realized the dark-haired templar was too slight of build to be Aerin and was not, in fact, anyone she knew.

That he wanted to take Bethany into custody made Laria bring her sword up to rest at his throat. "Do that, Ser Templar, and I assure you that you'll hit the ground before you can cast a holy smite," she promised, only to feel the cold bite of steel against her own neck.

"If you even attempt that, it will be the last action you perform," the soldier, a woman, promised and nicked Laria's neck with her blade tip.

"Well, this could end bloody badly," Carver commented, his broadsword swishing in the air beside the redheaded soldier. Laria's damp curls danced in the breeze his swing generated.

"Oh, please, don't you all think we have enough to worry about without fighting amongst ourselves?" Bethany exclaimed in mild disgust. Laria let her gaze turn in the soldier's direction.

"On the count of three," the woman commanded.

Swords lowered, they made introductions and decided that they would have to turn south, as a horde had exploded up out of the ground to the north. Small talk would wait and Laria agreed, pulling out her map. "We'll need to avoid the Imperial Highway, it's a mess of soldiers and 'spawn, but we can take the farm roads southeast, maybe get to Gwaren and a ship out of here."

"Miss, if you would use a healing spell on my husband, I would be grateful."

Those simple words, that simple request, tore at Laria's wounded heart and suddenly keeping Wesley Vallen alive was the most important thing in the world, as if, somehow, keeping him alive would ensure Aerin's survival as well.

But the ogre changed that. It picked Bethany up like she was a ragdoll and broke her, tossing her aside like an unwanted toy. Laria's grief and rage drove her into a frenzy that left the ogre dead and her face weeping blood from a dozen wounds sustained when she repeatedly threw herself at the giant. But it did no good. Bethany didn't move and her spells weren't cast and Laria felt frozen by a river of grief. Why? The question joined a list in her head, a chorus of whys that went unanswered as she looked at her sister's broken body and wondered how to put things to rights.

Her sweet sister, who would have done anything for any of them, without regret or question. She looked at Carver, who was shuffling closer to Bethany, his face looking suddenly too young and his expression disbelieving. Her heart ached for him and she stood still, gathering her strength, feeling as if the wrong word, the wrong action would shatter them all.

_Maker, please accept her in your arms, heal her pain and let her know joy. _ Simple words that did nothing to bring Bethany back but Laria couldn't find any other words and her emotions were writhing in her chest, screaming for an acknowledgement that she refused to give.

She sank to the ground beside Bethany while her mother's words fell around her, never quite penetrating a protective bubble that seemed to have formed around her. A part of her, the part not numbed with grief, wondered if she shouldn't just leave before she lost someone else but another large group of darkspawn took that moment to attack.

Maybe, she thought, wiping at a trickle of blood that stung her eyes, she could just give up. Carver could see her mother to safety and she could go in search of Aerin. Surely the Maker wouldn't take both Bethany and Aerin away? Her lips murmured a prayer as she fought beside Carver, her entire world collapsing around her, her mind slowly shutting down.

They were being overwhelmed, the darkspawn swarming over them like locusts. Laria's arm was weighted, slow and tired as she brought it down in an arc that nearly decapitated the small darkspawn she'd been battling. She heard the templar call out and then the sound of metal clattering together and she knew that he'd fallen. No matter what, she couldn't seem to keep people alive.

"Fight!" Carver shouted at her and she turned to see his earnest face, splattered with blood, as he continued to cut through the darkspawn. Give up, she wanted to tell him.

Just give up and find peace.

Maker, she was tired, so tired that her arm wouldn't respond to her commands. She turned and saw the soldier, Aveline, kneeling beside her husband as the 'spawn advanced.

She blinked, convinced she had fallen in battle and death was approaching in the form of a high dragon, circling above them with the grace of an eagle. Then it swooped low, burning dozens of darkspawn in a single gout of fire, white hot in its intensity. She struggled to remain standing, mouth agape as the dragon continued to decimate the darkspawn. Somewhere behind her she heard her mother wailing and knew it was for Bethany and not her. The thought made her feel strangely at peace.

She shouldn't have been surprised, she realized later, but watching the dragon transform into a woman had left her momentarily speechless. The she-dragon wanted to strike a deal. It was laughable, really, except it wasn't. She listened as the woman explained the terms of getting them to safety in return for a favor.

"Carver, as soon as soon as you and mother are safely in Kirkwall, repay this woman's kindness."

"Kindness? Oh no, dear child, it is not a kindness at all. It's a burden, a burden I gave _you_ and it is you who must fulfill it. Your destiny doesn't end here and now. Did you really think I would allow that?"

"What does it matter who takes the amulet to the Dalish?" she asked, rubbing her forehead and trying to blot out the sound of Wesley Vallen's rasping, rattling breath. He couldn't die. If he died then Aerin… she tamped the thought down, knowing it had no basis in fact and trying to make herself believe that but her heart was shredding, bits of it being subsumed by the horrible blackness of her grief.

The witch smiled at her, a surprisingly kind smile that seemed to ease Laria's physical pain. She touched her forehead and realized the bleeding had not only stopped, but the wounds had healed.

"It matters, trust me, child. And you will thank me later for insisting you perform the duty. I am content to wait until then. But first, there is another matter..."

Three weeks later the grief-stricken survivors landed in Kirkwall.

**A/N:** _An epilogue will follow within the next two or three days, followed by a sequel, tentatively titled: Beneath the Watcher's Moon.  
>~~Thank you, Lisa, for your dedication in helping with this chapter. Your suggestions and hand-holding were most appreciated.<br>~~Thank you, Enaid, for your suggestion months ago about Laria and why she would be in Ostagar during the battle.  
>~~The opening lore is, of course, from the prologue as it seemed appropriate to bring it full circle.<br>~~I am always happily surprised by the wonderful comments and reviews left for my stories and thankful beyond measure. To all who favorited and followed, who sent PMs and lurked, thank you, as well_.


	19. Epilogue - Aithne's Heart

**Epilogue – One year later**

**Aithne's Heart **

_After the conflagration had consumed the forests and fields, a lone flower began to bloom in the scorched soil. As white as snow, it had a crimson center. It was a burning flower, many whispered, and those who witnessed its beauty, wept._

"_This shall be known as Aithne's Heart; a reminder of one woman's courage," Father Sky commanded, before releasing the first drops of rain to fall on the parched lands. ***__**Chasing Chasind Lore, No Stone Unturned by Brother Genitivi**_

She'd had the dream again, waking in a sweat-soaked panic, the image of a broken templar fading in the early morning light that filtered through the trees. The others, already awake, were gathered around the fire, pretending she hadn't cried out in her sleep. Again. Con, curled up at the foot of her bedroll, raised his head with a low rumble of comfort.

She tried to convince herself that it was the witch's words that had unsettled her, along with the dwarf's penchant for telling horror stories at night when they were all grouped around the fire. But the dream had come to her often since leaving Ferelden. She scrubbed at her face, trying to erase Aerin's tortured expression from her mind.

"Damned witch," she muttered, sitting up.

"She was right, you know," Carver said, plopping down beside her with awkward grace. "You don't belong here."

"And you do?" she asked, nudging his shoulder.

"Damn straight, Sister," he replied, a note of surprise laced in with the smugness, as if he hadn't expected his answer any more than she had. "I like it here. I'm making a name for myself. I have friends. Gamlen's a bit of a shit, but if I was Mother's younger brother I'd be one too, I think."

"What makes you think you aren't?" she teased, her voice not as light as she'd hoped for.

"You have to go, Lark," he said quietly, firmly, as if he was the elder sibling. He'd carried so much of the burden since they'd left Ferelden. She felt the familiar pang of guilt settle on her chest and welcomed its weight; it was comforting in its familiarity.

"If you don't find out for sure you'll be a miserable bitch and we already have one of those in the family," he added.

Sighing unhappily, she sat up and drew her knees close to her chest. "I'm not sure I can," she said honestly.

Closing her eyes, she pictured herself traveling through Ferelden in search of Aerin, feeling a rush of adrenaline-fueled fear course through her. Her hands began to shake, and a cold sweat dampened her skin again. She shook her head, gripping her hands as she counted slowly to ten to try and ease the panic.

"Bollocks! You used to be the fearless one, the one who faced down anyone and everyone. This isn't you, Lark."

But fear had been her constant companion since they'd fled Ferelden. It was guilt, Carver had told her once when they'd both been tipsy enough for him to be brutally honest. And he was right, but only partially.

There was guilt, yes, constantly eating at her, but there was more…fear.

Fear was sometimes the only thing that kept her moving. Fear of what she would find and fear of what she wouldn't find. Fear of losing those memories that held her together and fear of recalling those that tore her apart.

Some part of her was convinced that if she believed Aerin was still alive then he would be, and that if she didn't go in search of him, he would live a full life. But if she went looking, she would find he'd died and then he would truly be lost to her. Better to believe the myth. At least that's what she told herself during the long nights when sleep taunted her and dreams haunted her.

The witch's words rose in her mind, and she shivered again, wrapping her arms around her legs and closing her eyes, replaying their conversation as they'd stood at the ancient altar atop the wind-swept mountain…

"_Is this the part where I thank you? Isn't that what you said? I would thank you?" Laria asked bitterly. _

"_Did I? What a clever child you are to remember. And are you thankful?" the witch asked, golden eyes alight with sly amusement. _

"_For what? Making me walk up this Maker forsaken mountain?" _

"_Well, the view is spectacular, that alone should make you grateful," Flemeth laughed before turning away to look at the sea, far to the south and glittering like quicksilver in the sun. _

"_Your destiny lies across the Waking Sea, child. It's time you faced it, don't you agree? I'd offer you a ride, but I'm afraid you might…fall." _

_Laria felt a spasm of fear flutter through her. Was the witch hinting that she knew something about Laria's 'fall' as she and Carver referred to it? Her brows drew down and she frowned at Flemeth. "I don't believe in destiny any more than I believe in fairy tales and superstitions," she replied coolly. _

"_Ha! Then it's a good thing I _do_ believe in such things, isn't it? Now, I am overdue for an appointment with __**my**__ destiny, but heed my warning, child. Do not wait too long to return. Destiny isn't written in stone, but sand. You never know when the winds or waves will alter it…"_

A shiver chased down her spine, rattling her nerves as she remembered those final words. She tried to focus on Carver's words.

"…so take your share of the money we've saved and go home," Carver continued. "I mean, if you can't bring yourself to do it for any other reason, do it because you're cramping my style."

A reluctant huff of laughter came from her. "You don't _have_ a style, Carver," she replied with a brief smile, her fear slipping into the shadows cast by the towering pines around them.

Home.

Kirkwall had never felt like home and their year in servitude to Athenril was nothing more than a blur of smuggled goods and bloody fights against desperate people. Had she been in her right mind she never would have agreed to the terms Athenril had demanded. She would have done what she'd told her mother she would do and simply walked away, but by then she'd felt broken, willing to do what she was told because it was easier to mindlessly follow than have to think and make decisions and feel.

"I'm scared," she admitted softly, for Carver's ears alone. Not that the others didn't already know that about her. Even Varric, as charming and outgoing as he was, couldn't hide the fact that she sometimes made him nervous because she was frightened so often. They barely knew each other but he'd already figured out she appeared to be damaged in some fundamental way.

"I know," Carver said, slipping his arm around her shoulder. "But that's got to stop. I mean, you aren't even a challenge anymore," he added with a grin.

Her heart fluttered, her mind restive, but she considered his words and their intent and deep inside, beyond the fear, she knew he was right. It was time to go home. She knew that, believed that, but still she hesitated. She rubbed at the scar on her wrist. "You aren't afraid I'll –"

"Maker, no! Why? Are you?"

She shook her head, her fingers still tracing the scar. That bit of insanity was gone for good, she knew. "No."

"All right then, you know what you need to do: pack up and leave. Ships sail every day for Ferelden. Silly bastards want to see the refugees go home now the Blight's over. Who'll do their dirty work if they send us all home, eh?"

He made it sound so easy, so reasonable. She wanted to believe him and on their hike back to Kirkwall from Sundermount, she considered his words, barely listening to the nervous young Dalish woman accompanying them, or Varric's clever stories, or Aveline's plodding good advice. She listened to her heart for the first time in a year and it whispered a song of home.

A week later she boarded the _Stella Victoria_, bound for Denerim, with ten sovereigns in her pocket, Con at her side and hope in her heart. Carver saw her off, gleefully boasting that he would one day own the city without her around to muck things up.

"I won't be that far away. If I even think you're getting too big for your britches, I'll come back here and kick you in your arse until they fit again."

"Sure, you and what army?"

She hugged him quickly, fiercely, feeling like the Laria of old, stronger somehow now that she was going home. "Take care of Mother," she instructed.

He blinked, surprised by the sincerity in her voice. She shrugged away the guilt that was trying to form in the pit of her stomach. "I pity her for the life she chose to live. Now take care of her and stop giving me lip," she added sternly before softening it with a smile.

"I will."

"And stay out of mischief!"

"I'm not some little boy, Lark, give it a rest!" he complained, scratching the back of his neck and grinning, endearingly boyish.

"Thank you, Carver, for everything, for holding us together even while I fought against it. I know you hate hearing this, but I have to say it. I love you."

She saw him clearly in that moment, saw the man he had been forced to become and her pride in him brought tears to her eyes. He had grown up while she had hovered in a dark place, resistant to any growth at all, afraid it would mean the past had ceased to exist. That Aerin would cease to exist.

As the ship put to sea, she stood waving until her arm ached and she was no longer able to see her brother. She held only the slimmest hope of finding news of Aerin, believing that if he had survived the Blight he would have found her. But she owed it to him, and to Bethany, to take up his cause. Or maybe, after visiting, she would realize her home really wasn't in Ferelden any longer. Whatever else she found in Ferelden she knew she would find the key to her self-imposed prison.

Again, the witch's words came to her and, standing on the foredeck, the wind brisk in her face, she found herself oddly comforted by them.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Lothering was nothing more than burned out buildings and scorched earth. The chantry, particularly hard hit, was all skeletal beams and shattered stained glass, as if the darkspawn had taken out all their fury on the building.

The village green was charred, only a few brave blades of green poking through the sea of ashes. Blackened cages were lying abandoned and the wind was a mournful whine through the bent, gnarled trees, giving the entire scene an aching bleakness. It seemed as though a firestorm had rained down on the area, leaving nothing behind but cinder and ash.

He'd heard that the Qunari, Sten, and Sister Leliana had traveled with the Hero of Ferelden. He found both notions disquieting and he had not looked either of them up the last time he'd been in Denerim, going out of his way to avoid any of the festivities or celebrations. Considering the number of deaths and the amount of destruction, he was hard pressed to find a reason for either.

His hand brushed against the empty cage that had held the Qunari. Memories stirred as bitter and black as ash, painful in their clarity and detail. Laria, her beautiful grey eyes luminous as she ran to greet him, pretending that she didn't care a fig and all the while smiling at him as if he was both her sun and her moon. Moments spent in the practice yard, training, sparring verbally as well as physically. Long hours spent in the chantry garden, discussing a life together. The angry mob that had wanted her hung after Pelham's death. He walked the deserted town, lost in his memories.

He still found it impossible to believe she was gone, expecting to see her in every crowd he passed, in every village and farm, or striding along the road, head held proudly as she protected her family.

Maron had assured him that she'd departed for Rowan's Reach with her family but never arrived. Maron had personally gone in search of her and found a gaping hole in the road between Lothering and Rowan's Reach, along with a number of bodies, burned so badly they were nothing more than blackened lumps, indistinguishable. That image was the nightmare that visited him when he slept.

He couldn't accept it. He'd traveled each possible route she could have taken to no avail. He knew he had to give up the search and take up his duties once more, but he found himself in Lothering instead, seeking the least little memory to sustain his diminishing hope. He believed in destiny, in the threads of fate that had interwoven his life with hers. She had to be alive. It was a matter of finding her.

It was guilt that drove him, made him refuse to give up. He'd ridden off when every instinct had told him his place was by her side. He'd seen how apprehensive she was about the templars. He should have stayed, but his duty to the Reformationists had made that impossible. Or so he'd thought then. Now, standing alone in the ruined village of Lothering, he was no longer so certain.

As it turned out, it wasn't the templars he'd had to fear, but bandits who had attacked without warning, leaving him for dead. He still wasn't sure why, or how, he'd survived the attack that had left both his arms, four ribs and his left leg broken. Whoever they were, the group had hated templars, judging by the viciousness of the assault. He could still hear the knight-lieutenant's screams as the assailants beat him; those cries had him waking some nights in a cold sweat.

He'd been fortunate enough to be found by a small band of Wilder folk who had taken him in. A witch of the wilds had been there at one point, he remembered her touch but not her words. When he'd realized he was among the Chasind he had asked that they take a message to Gwyneth's people.

The Hedwynn clan had taken him deep into the Korcari Wilds where they had spent months working to rehabilitate him and they had mostly been successful. He was luckier than the thousands of people who'd died during the Blight, and the tens of thousands who'd suffered worse injuries. He reminded himself of that when the pain woke him in the middle of the night.

He couldn't rest, not until he knew what had happened to his lady hawk. He hadn't been there when she'd most needed him and if he continued searching, maybe he would find forgiveness. He closed his eyes, letting his memories sweep through him, Éibhear impatiently nickering.

The Hawke farm lay in ruins, the barn's roof caved in and the house burned to the ground, not even the framing wood left behind. The fire that had burned the house had barely touched the fields but nothing was growing in the soil, not even weeds. He closed his eyes, trying to hold on to the hope that was slowly dying.

He found himself walking down the hillock to the river. Staring around him at the familiar scenery that had so spectacularly changed yet remained the same, he recalled their first meeting, could almost see her coming over the low ridge, smiling but wary, her brown curls dancing in the wind.

"Laria!" he shouted, his grief swelling until it overwhelmed him. He sank down, finally admitting to himself that his search for her, for her forgiveness, was futile. Burying his head in his hands, he wept.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Laria and Con left the road, mindful of the dark patches of corrupted soil as they made their way towards the farmhouse. Laria had stopped at every farm, and in every village she'd passed on her way from Denerim to Lothering. She questioned every person she encountered on the road, and was surprised by the numbers of people already returning to rebuild their ruined towns just a month after the Archdemon's death. But none had news of Aerin and it was harder to hold on to hope.

The landscape was devastated, ruined by fire and blood and taint. The sky was a brilliant, painful blue, but the usually green and rolling hills that marked the farmlands near the Southron Hills were painted a deep, unrelieved black as if they too were in mourning.

A month after arriving in Denerim, Laria stood on the road leading to the Hawke farm, wondering if she had the courage to follow it as it wound around the low hillocks beside the Drakon. Con made the decision easy as he raced off in the direction of the river.

A spot of color caught her eye … a startling splash of white in a field of black. Without hesitation she moved toward it, the remnants of burned grass crunching underfoot. Dropping to her knees, tears in her eyes, she recognized it as Aithne's Heart.

The flower, with its fragile white petals and crimson heart-shaped center, was such a rare sight, growing only in those places where nothing else would. It was a sign, she told herself, hands clasped, unwilling to touch the bloom lest she damage the delicate flower.

It had to mean _something_. Hope slowly trickled into her heart as she knelt, unable to see the flower for the tears coursing down her cheeks to drip steadily on the scarred, black land. How had the old witch known that her destiny was here? A strange lightness of being filled her and she recognized it for what it was…peace. Con bounded towards her, tongue out and expression almost happy. She was content to stay where she was, Con impatiently waiting at her side.

As dusk began to claim the sky, she stood and made her way towards the river. She eased her pack from her weary shoulders and began to set up camp, content to wait one more day to see Lothering, knowing it would be no less devastated than the farm.

Wandering down to the riverbank, she drew off her boots and socks and then began to unbuckle her armor. Con splashed into the shallows, barking at the fish. By the time she was divested of her armor and stood in only her thin padding, she was shivering, the sun having departed on the wings of the gentle breeze.

Stars began to wink into existence, gold and silver and blue and red, twinkling confidently in the ocean of night. The wind was kind, brushing softly at her curls and caressing her tear-stained cheeks. She could almost smell the wildflowers that had once grown in gay profusion in the meadow across the river.

Squatting down at the river's edge, she trailed her fingers in the cool water, allowing memories of fishing and swimming on lazy summer days to wash away the horrors of her final days in Ferelden. She eased down until she was sitting on a flat rock, slipping her feet into the water and sighing as the current eased their weariness.

It was impossible not to recall her first meeting with Aerin; she was very nearly in the same spot. And she scooped up a handful of pebbles and small rocks, looking for the perfect skipping stones. A sob rose up in her, but she found she was smiling and she pushed the sob away. It had no place in such happy memories.

She felt stronger, the fear that had eaten away at her disappearing with each stone she skipped across the surface of the river. Con was content to lie beside her, head in her lap and tongue lolling out of his mouth. Another stone went sailing across the river, skipping merrily before sinking out of sight.

She slept soundly, dreamlessly, that night, eschewing the shelter of her tent in favor of sleeping beneath the glittering benediction of the river of stars above her. In the morning, she woke ready to set out in search of her destiny, but not before bathing in the clear, cool water of the Drakon.

As she drifted on the river's currents, she heard a rustle behind her, an exclamation cut short and then Con barking wildly. Flailing in the water, trying to turn and see what the commotion was behind her, she was drenched by a large splash, water cascading over her. She choked on a mouthful of river.

"Tell me you aren't an apparition of my broken mind," a voice whispered raggedly.

Her heart stilled, stopped, held suspended in her chest before slamming into her ribs and racing away, leaving her breathless and temporarily unable to speak.

"Talk to me," the voice begged as she was crushed against a broad chest, gentle but calloused fingers sifting through her curls before tracing her cheeks, where tears had suddenly appeared.

"Yell at me for failing you, if it will give you speech," the voice pleaded. "Just please, say something_. Anything_. I have had this dream too many times to trust it."

Her arms wound around the man who held her so tightly and she let out a soft whimper as his hold tightened further. She looked up at a face scarred by war and grief, into a pair of searching brown eyes so full of longing and hope that she uttered a sob of recognition, knowing her own eyes held the same expression.

"Don't ever let go again, Ser Wolf," she whispered brokenly.

"Never," he vowed softly, tenderly, just before his lips descended on hers. "Never again, my lady hawk."

Fin

**A/N:** _My deepest thanks to all those who have read this story, and a special thanks to those who took time to comment. It has been a wonderful experience, especially in coming up with the lore each chapter, and Aerin and Laria have come to hold a special place in my heart.  
>~~Suilven, I wanted to thank you again for the wonderful artwork of Aithne's Heart, which I have printed out and framed; it was the inspiration for this chapter<em>.  
><em>~~I can't thank my beta, Lisa, enough for all her help, encouragement and support. She is a brilliant writer and a wonderful friend. Thank you, Lisa. <em>  
><em>~~The first chapter of the sequel should be out within the next few weeks and I hope you join Aerin, Laria and Carver as they enjoy new adventures!<em>


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